


Shades of Red and Black

by AustralianRanger012



Series: Choices and Second Chances Universe *CSC Universe* [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Drama, Gen, No Slash, Origin Story, Recruitment, pre-SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-06 23:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4240707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AustralianRanger012/pseuds/AustralianRanger012
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton was dead, his life story from beginning to end stained red with blood. Hawkeye the assassin was a name feared by all who heard it. The man behind the name was slowly drowning in darkness, until one person decided to change that by giving him two things he’d never had before; a choice, and a chance to live. </p><p>Hawkeye origin story</p><p>First story in the Choices and Second Chances Universe</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Hallo everyone!
> 
> After months of deliberating I finally decided to be brave and post my stories on AO3 as well as on Fanfiction.net where I have also published this story under the same username. That being the case I will be posting a new chapter here every day or so until the story is complete while future stories will be posted simultaneously across the two sites. 
> 
> Before I go on I want to thank my beta-readers, Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot, both of whom were invaluable in helping to iron out this story and make it better. 
> 
> This story is the first story in a universe of my creation that I call the Choices and Second Chances Universe. I have a whole host of stories set in the same universe that I want to write someday and have a direct sequel to this story already written. It is in the final editing stages and so should be out sometime in July if everything goes according to plan. 
> 
> This story takes place in the late nineties. However going with the advanced technology that is present in the Marvel Cinematic Universe the technology they use is more advanced than it was in our world in the nineties. I'm going with the idea that they discovered and invented things much earlier. At this point in time they have laptops, fairly sophisticated computer programs, cell phones, wireless coms, high-tech methods of transport and the internet is readily available to the characters. It makes my job so much easier.
> 
> Enjoy chapter 1 of Shades of Red and Black! I'm curious to see what reception this story receives on this site.

* * *

 Often you think when you're rejected that you are not good enough but the truth is they weren't ready for all you have to offer. _Melchor Lim_

* * *

**Chapter 1: Then**

_Afghanistan: January, 1997_

Clint Barton sat handcuffed to a chair in front of his commanding officer.

"In conclusion Corporal Barton, I have had just about all that I can take of your bullshit."

First Lieutenant Samuel Hunt sat across from him, levelling his icy gaze directly at the sniper as he continued his rant.

"Your too-smart attitude, your utter disregard for rules, your blatant disdain and disrespect for anyone in a position of authority, it's all gone too far. A soldier must show obedience and respect to his superiors at all times which you have constantly failed to do from day one. The only reason we kept you around for this long is because of your shooting abilities but now we have no other choice than to let you go. Disobeying a direct order from your commander in such a delicate situation as we have here, no matter what you say happened out there, is taking things too far."

Barton knew that, he knew it had only been a matter of time before he was kicked out of the army for some reason or another. If it wasn't for his amazing skills as a long-distance sniper he knew he'd already be gone, but he certainly hadn't expected to leave quite like this; escorted out under armed guard with a prison sentence, possibly even a death sentence depending on how pissed his superiors were at him, on his head. He'd really managed to mess this up royally; even with his personal track record this hole he'd dug himself into was a mighty impressive one. The Lieutenant continued his ranting without a pause.

"You are hereby dishonourably discharged and will be shipped back to the United States to face court charges first thing in the morning."

Given it was already about 1 am, Afghanistan local time, Clint thought with slight amusement that technically it was already first thing in the morning. However he didn't say that out loud, deciding it was probably best to keep his mouth shut, about that point anyway. Unfortunately for him, keeping his mouth shut permanently on anything he should keep his mouth shut about had never really been his strong point as that would be just too easy. Rather, he had a gift for getting himself into trouble; that much he was sure of. Clint looked straight ahead and sat up as straight as he could whilst still being handcuffed to the chair.

"SIR, yes SIR." He said, emphasizing the 'sir' part so it sounded like an insult of authority instead of an honorification. That had taken a lot of practice but it was worth every second of it to see the reaction when people realised that as he'd technically addressed them right there wasn't a lot they could do about the implied meaning. First Lieutenant Hunt was no different to the others, his eyes narrowed and the look he sent back made Clint suspect if he hadn't just been discharged from the army for disobeying orders the Lieutenant would find a way to have him discharged for that insult alone. Bit late for that now as technically he wasn't a part of the army anymore. Hunt glared at him for a moment longer before he turned and addressed the two soldiers who were standing at attention just inside the tent opening with a sharp tone of voice.

"Take Barton to the brig, this meeting is over." He snapped out before turning back to Clint and nodding at the soldier standing behind the chair to un-cuff him. As Clint had his hands cuffed behind his back instead the Lieutenant gave him a glare that Clint swore to himself could have cut through metal if the man had wanted it to, he returned it with an arrogant smirk that only served to make his superior's eyes blaze even more than they already did. Hunt kept that look in place as he spoke in a clipped tone, radiating anger.

"Be ready to leave at 0700 hours tomorrow. You're dismissed; now get him out of my sight."

With that he marched out of the tent in a way that reminded Clint of a bantam rooster leaving the soldiers to take Clint back to the prison cell block where he'd be held until they were ready to move him when it was light. Clint was amused at the Lieutenants last words to him, like he had a choice what time he left the camp.

**_6 hours earlier._ **

" _Barton, you are clear, take the shot."_

_Clint frowned as he took in the hazy scene before him through the scope of his sniper rifle, damn the cursed wind and sand, all the shadows and movement interfered with his hawk-like eyesight. This was the reason he preferred to work from a distance, so he could see the whole picture. That was also why he didn't work with a spotter, he preferred to trust his own eyes and not rely on someone else's to tell him what was happening._

_Something definitely wasn't right about this picture, and he didn't think the natural elements and growing darkness were the problem. Sure, the person standing there in his sights looked like their target, the leader of this rebel band of terrorists who were causing the army way to many casualties to be left alone, but his gut told him something just wasn't right and it had never let him down yet. Clint hesitated, trying to sort out what he was seeing in his mind. Just what didn't he like about all this?_

" _Barton, I said TAKE THE SHOT!" Still Clint hesitated, he had almost figured out what was wrong here. Just another couple of seconds..._

" _BARTON!" The anger in his Generals voice was lost on Clint as he finally registered what he was seeing, something that he would have been able to do a hell of a lot quicker if the General hadn't been swearing very creatively in three different languages in his ear. At least, that's what Clint **thought** he was saying._

" _Sir, listen to me! That isn't our target. Our target was slightly taller and thinner, I studied the photos really hard so I'd know. That's a decoy, the real target..."_

" _Barton, I don't care! For the last time shut the %!* up and do what I tell you to, and I say TAKE THAT **** SHOT! If you don't you'll be facing court charges tomorrow for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer. I..."_

" _Sir, I'm sorry but I cannot take the shot."_

_Clint's voice was cool and professional, despite the churning in his stomach from the General's words as he lowered the rifle. No matter what they did to him he couldn't do this. He just knew that man wasn't the correct target, and he refused to kill someone just for the sake of it, or just because somebody else told him to._

_Even though that man was more than likely another terrorist, just not the one they were targeting, he could be an innocent and for that reason Clint couldn't make the shot. He never missed, and he didn't want to kill an innocent by mistake. He killed enough as it was and he wasn't a murderer. Clint's heart was heavy as he spoke into his comm unit, knowing his next words would seal his fate._

" _That man is not who we were sent to kill. He's a de..."_

_He never got any further._

" _That's IT!"_

_The anger in the General's voice was evident over the comms unit in his ear; Clint swore he could also hear just how red-faced and bristled his superior was at Clint's outright defiance and disobedience. "I've had enough. Wilson and Lewis, bring Corporal Barton back to me. Corporal, you are under arrest for disobeying a direct order and forinsubordination. I've no doubt that after Lieutenant Hunt hears my report you'll be out of the army for good. Any resistance on your part to these orders will be treated with extreme prejudice by me when you arrive."_

_Of that, Clint didn't doubt._

_Clint signed inwardly as the two soldiers with him leapt to do the Generals bidding. Great, this was just great. But he still wasn't going to take the shot, and they couldn't make him. He wasn't going to just be the bullet in the gun with someone else pulling the trigger. That wasn't what he'd signed up to the army for._

_He'd signed up to make the world a better place, he'd told himself at the time, to do some good for a change, to try something different. His real reasons for wanting to join the army and get out of the country were somewhat more complicated but he never spoke of them. He'd figured at the time the army was his best bet at a fresh start seeing as he could hit any target he was pointed at from any distance with pretty much any weapon. His aim was basically the only skill he possessed that was actually worth something to other people._

_With his past the army was also pretty much the only thing he could get into, though he'd had to resort to some creativity they weren't aware of. However he hadn't counted on having to contend with incompetent generalswho had inflated opinions of themselves giving him shit orders and not even listening to his reasoning. Plus, Ross had taken a real disliking to Clint from day one; he'd managed to get on his superior's nerves from their first meeting without even trying. Clint knew the General had been waiting for an opportunity to have him chucked out of the army and he'd just given him one, in fact he'd just handed him a reason gift-wrapped on a silver platter._

_When he'd signed up Clint also hadn't counted on the general ideas a lot of normal soldiers held about snipers being insane or crazy or even both, especially when he refused to work with a spotter and still beat all the other snipers easily in shooting competitions. Also he wasn't a social sort of person, and the army was very keen on that sort of thing, teambuilding and all the rest of it. Brothers-in-arms or whatever they like to call it, not that any of that helped Clint right now. Right now he was in very deep, very hot water with no way out that he could see. He had no allies or friends and was looking at a future behind bars as his best option at this point._

_Sadly, it wasn't the worst situation he'd ever found himself in._

**_Present._ **

Clint was taken to the army cell block, un-cuffed, and then left in a cell. It was pretty bare, one narrow hard bunk covered with a single blanket that took up pretty much all the space there was, and a pot in the corner. No windows, one locked and barred door with a single light bulb just outside in the corridor giving a vague illusion of light. It smelt musty and damp, and was stuffy. None of this mattered much to Clint as he didn't intend to be here for long.

Unnoticed by his jailers Clint had managed to pick-pocket the key to his cell as they were taking the cuffs off. (Clint had discovered early on that many soldiers, at least those who were the favourites of the higher-ups, tended to not have a lot of brains or be very observant and would easily miss things happening right under their noses. Clint suspected they were the favourites of the higher-ups for the very reason that they didn't have enough brains for creative thinking and would just dumbly follow orders. Superiors liked that.)

He could now leave the cell at his leisure; the only problem was he wasn't fully sure how he was going to get out of the camp undetected. Getting caught trying to escape after what had just happened would certainly land him a death sentence, and Clint wasn't quite ready to die, either by a court martial for deserting or by being shot in the head by the army. He hadn't survived what he had just to be shot down like a dog now.

What he needed was a distraction. Just as he was wondering how to provide one (he had no doubt that he could, hey, trouble was almost his middle name, actually scratch that, it was his _first_ name) he heard a commotion happening outside the cell block. Listening closely he caught some of what was being said thanks to his sharp ears.

"...oldiers! Report to duty immediately. Possible hostiles reported on approach! Repeat, all soldiers report to duty immediately, possible hostiles are on approach!"

OK, maybe this wasn't quite the distraction he'd wanted but he could make it work, providing he didn't get shot that is.

Clint swiftly let himself out of the cell and slipped out of the building while the guards were looking the other way, they were very sloppy and Clint excelled at moving quietly. Slipping behind a truck parked nearby like a shadow, he paused for a moment to get an idea of what was happening and where he was. This part of the camp was relatively quiet; it was where most of the vehicles were parked. Luckily for him, it was also deserted. Everyone seemed to be on the other side of the camp.

Clint moved silently, sticking to the shadows cast by the vehicles around him and trying to match his movements to the grass and wind so as not to attract attention. He had made it about 200 yards from the prison block when, without warning, the building suddenly exploded with a BOOOOOM that shook the ground.

Clint dove behind the nearest cover, which happened to be a jeep, and watched dumbstruck as the place he'd been imprisoned in not 10 minutes ago went up in a giant ball of orange, yellow and white flames. The explosion was so big that Clint felt the heat wash over him from where he was crouching and bits of debris from the destroyed building floated down.

Clint watched dry-mouthed and felt a rush of adrenaline and fear as the horror of what could have happened to him sunk in. He didn't bother to wonder how it had happened, and to be honest he really didn't care. Right now all he cared about was getting as far away from the camp and the army as quickly as possible before anyone saw him. It was probably best for everyone involved to think he was dead.

* * *

At 10 am local time the next day a few items of clothing went missing in the town located approximately 20 miles from the army base. At 12:58 pm a wallet containing a rather large sum of cash went missing from the pocket of a wealthy American business man in Kandahar. The wallet was later recovered abandoned in an alley, minus the cash. That evening at 6:27 pm precisely a plane left from Kandahar International Airport bound for Orly Airport in Paris. No one considered these three things were in any way related.

* * *

 


	2. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> And here is the next chapter. It is a bit short with not much action but chapters will get longer and more action-packed later. Enjoy!

* * *

 But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself. _Albert Camus_

* * *

**Chapter 2: Now**

_Oslo, Norway: October, 1997_

The shadows were lengthening as Hawkeye lay on a rooftop somewhere in Oslo observing his target getting ready to go out to dinner. Thanks to his phenomenal eyesight Clint could see his target's silhouette clearly through the drawn curtains even though he happened to be two blocks away and daylight was fading fast. Nikolai Aspen was a middle class man, seemed ordinary in every way and a really nice normal guy. Clint knew from his observations he had a date with a pretty blonde tonight at a nice little restaurant in a nice part of town, too bad he would never make it past his front door.

Clint grimaced, it was a shame, the blonde was actually _very_ pretty, and as far as Clint knew Aspen hadn't actually done anything to deserve the fate he was about to be dealt by Clint's hand. Apart from somehow pissing off the wrong person, the kind who happened to have a lot of money and held a grudge, bad enough that said person now wanted him dead.

"Stop thinking like that Clint." He scolded himself. "If you don't kill him the contract still stands. At least this way he'll be dead before he knows what happened, an arrow straight through his heart, nice and quick. It's not like you torture people." These thoughts didn't give him much comfort and weren't exactly true, he did torture the marks' families by taking their loved ones from them. He was the one about to kill Aspen; this whole thing was on _him_. It had been ever since he'd accepted this job.

He was doing what he'd never wanted to do, be a bullet in the gun with someone else pulling the trigger and calling the shots. He hated himself more and more each day for what he'd become. Still, he needed to find some comfort somewhere in this whole stuffed-up situation he was in, or he just might wind up killing himself and while he'd always taken risks he'd never being outright suicidal.

It had been nine months since he'd escaped from the army, though everyone involved thought he'd died in that explosion. He knew that because later he'd gotten hold of the necessary documents (with a really high clearance level tag, don't ask questions if you wanted to live) that stated he was, to all intents and purposes, dead; on paper at least. This suited him just fine as he practically had a death sentence hanging over his head anyway, and if they'd ever found out he'd lied on his original enlistment papers he knew he would have been in very hot water.

He hadn’t even been seventeen when he’d signed up, not that anyone had known. The forged papers he’d gotten hold of had done the trick beautifully. In retrospect, signing up to the army when you were only sixteen and a half probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. However, Clint hadn't been able to wait until he was legally old enough to join. He'd needed an out right then and there. He'd figured the army was the best bet; they were unlikely to look too closely at the papers he'd presented as long as they looked good. As Clint had pretty well nothing the prospect of three meals a day and a roof over his head had also heavily influenced his decision in that regard.

Once Clint was in the army for a few months and had proven himself as a marksman he didn't think it mattered much who he had been or what he had done before joining. He'd never breathed a word about the forged papers to anyone, seeing no reason to tempt fate. And now they were irrelevant anyway.

However, being dead created its own set of problems. For one he couldn't access his bank account with his army pay in it or anything else from before the army because that could show that he wasn't as dead as his papers said he was. Once he'd arrived in Paris he'd had to resort to some less-than-honest means of making money. Thank goodness for all those years spent in the circus, and for the old fortune teller, Madame, who had taught him to speak French when he was 12. Once he made enough money he'd had a fake passport made and had flown to the US to retrieve his bow and a few other belongings from an old circus buddy of his. This man was a genius who'd also hacked into the army database for Clint and found out about his supposed death. Thank goodness for favours, the guy had owned him one. Once Clint had everything he wanted he then flew back to Europe, nicely under the radar thanks to his mate.

At a loss at what to do with himself, (there aren't many jobs available for someone who had just officially turned eighteen, and who is also officially supposed to be dead) Clint had drifted through Europe for a few weeks. Then he'd gotten into a fight with half a dozen street thugs who were trying to mug a man in Geneva and easily won, which had been his first big mistake. His next big mistake was using arrows. News travelled quickly in the wrong circles and before the week was up Clint had been approached by a man with a questionable identity and asked if he would be interested in doing a little job for him, he'd be well paid for his trouble of course. Clint had been desperate for money for food and shelter and was terribly naive at that point so had jumped at the chance to earn some hard cash.

It had been pretty easy to take out the drug dealer the man (who he'd later found out was the leader of the local mafia) wanted dead, and the amount of money he received for taking that one shot seemed like more than he'd owned in his whole life. He'd decided then and there that maybe killing people with his skills wasn't such a bad thing, if the people in question really deserved it. And if he got paid enough; if someone wanted to use his skills then they had to pay his price, no arguments, his past had taught him the value of money. However, those first intentions had spiralled rapidly downhill not long after that.

* * *

Clint was brought back to the present as his target left the room. Rising to his feet he picked up his bow from where it was lying on the roof beside him and selected an arrow from his quiver. He readied himself to take the shot as Aspen exited the building; the perch he'd chosen had a clear, unobstructed line of sight to the front door. As the door was opening Clint drew back the bow string, ignoring the dull ache in his right shoulder from a month old bullet wound that was courtesy of a very determined security guard and hadn't healed properly yet, and fired. He knew as soon as he released the tension that Aspen was dead.

He didn't need to watch the smartly-dressed figure crumble onto the ground with a black shafted arrow protruding from his chest to confirm it. He'd shot millions of arrows millions of times, and knew exactly where his arrow was going to end up before he released it. The job finished, he silently headed back over the rooftops to where he was staying.

The derelict motel that had been his home for the past week was located in a shady part of town that no one with half a brain went near, no one who didn't have a questionable past or intentions at least. It was a seedy place where as long as you paid the price (way more than the accommodation was actually worth, for a start the water in the shower was stuck permanently between luke-warm/almost cold and the television set didn't work 99% of the time) no one would bother with you. No name was needed, there were no papers to sign, no cameras installed, and no questions were asked. If you wanted to pay by the hour it would oblige you without question. In other words it was just as Clint liked it to be. After having a quick shower (due to the odd temperature) Clint battled with the television set for a while before finally giving up and going to bed, not that he managed much sleep as he lay there trying to bury the guilt he felt for what he'd done.

In the morning he was leaving this place.

* * *

One thing Clint had learned very quickly was that once you'd taken the shot you got out of the city, or even the country, double quick, and you didn't draw unnecessary attention to yourself while you did it. He had already booked on a flight leaving at 9 am in the morning bound for Paris, and he was at the airport half an hour early, all packed and looking just like any other passenger. He managed to get through security despite having several knives on his person (he'd known in advance the security at this particular airport was shit which was the reason he'd chosen it, though it wasn't always easy to smuggle all that metal through customs) and had boarded his flight on time.

Clint then proceeded to read a newspaper he'd purchased at the airport before takeoff, or at least to appear too. He was actually taking in very little of what it said, partly because it wasn't written in English and he couldn't read much of the Norwegian script and partly as he was busy watching everyone and listening to everything that happened around him. Never mind that they were speaking Norwegian, he spoke Norwegian well enough to understand what was happening it was just the reading aspect that was virtually nonexistent.

Clint had discovered very quickly that he had an ear for languages, Norwegian being just one of the many languages he'd picked up as he was travelling around Europe and Asia. He found all he had to do was immerse himself in a language for a few days or a few weeks and before long he could speak and understand it without too much difficulty. Reading and writing the language was a different matter and Clint didn't know much in that regard but even only being able to speak it made his job a lot easier. It drew a lot less attention and made things a lot easier asking directions or shopping if you could speak the language of whatever country you were in. People also appreciated it and were more likely to help you with what you wanted.

Also, if there was one thing that Clint seriously hated doing if he didn't absolutely have to do it was drawing attention to himself. The last thing he wanted in his job was to sound American, he would stick out like a sore thumb if he did. It was much safer to pretend to be a French man travelling around European countries as it enabled him to blend in better than if he sounded American. Clint preferred to remain invisible; it was safer for him that way.

Though he kept alert the whole way the flight proved to be uneventful, and they landed in Paris right on schedule.

* * *

When Clint had first started making a name for himself in the world of contract assassins he had to decide on what he wanted to be called. Of cause he couldn't use his real name, so for lack of better ideas at the time he'd opted for the name he'd had in the circus, 'Hawkeye', maybe not his most original idea but it had a nice ring to it. Once he'd had a name it hadn't taken long for him to rise up in the ranks of the European underworld, and he was also well known in Asia.

Hawkeye, the master assassin who killed with an arrow and never missed became famous, a name to be feared and respected. Especially when it became widely known that those who'd tried to double-cross him hadn't survived long; more than one crew had lost its boss to Hawkeye's arrows. No one cared about his real name or his age anymore, or what he'd done before, and that suited him just fine. It was safer for him this way.

After Clint had become the assassin Hawkeye he'd changed. His once warm blue-grey eyes had become hard and cold. He couldn't allow himself to care anymore, so he ignored the guilt he constantly felt for what he did, burying it deep inside in a steel box with all his other emotions. It wasn't like he had a choice about what he did anymore; he was in this too deep to back out now.

After his imprisonment and experiences in Korea just over four months ago he'd realised he couldn't afford to have emotions in this business, they only succeeded in almost getting him killed. The scar across his neck and chest was a constant, physical reminder of that. He couldn't feel regrets or hesitate about doing anything he'd committed to, that just got him in trouble and hurt him. He'd learned that lesson a mere two months ago, and the scars from that incident were also permanent. Clint now possessed less than 80% hearing in both ears and had to wear aides all the time if he wanted to hear. Another reason to stay anonymous, if it was to become known that a feared master assassin was almost completely deaf it was a weakness that could be exploited and used against him.

And what else was there for him to do if he did back out of this life? He'd made many enemies, and the only way to keep them at bay was to have them fear him, to let them know that they wouldn't survive if they tried to double-cross him. If he wanted to live others had to die, it was that simple. Plus, making the amount of money he did was useful, even if most of it was in an offshore savings account. Who didn't dream of being a millionaire?

Deep down Clint knew all this was wrong, but he convinced himself it was the only way to survive so the despair and darkness he felt over his actions wouldn't crush him completely. Due to this he hadn't realised until later that he'd built a different persona to try and cling to his last bit of sanity. This persona didn't care about people or human life in general; all he cared for was a pay check.

Clint Barton was indeed dead; in fact he was deader than dead and buried under a different person. The cheeky and sometimes rebellious army sniper was long gone, replaced by the somewhat sinister, grim and emotionless master assassin known to the planet's criminal underworld as Hawkeye.

* * *

**End of chapter 2.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint is in a bad place and it will get much worse before it gets better you have been warned, but rest assured it will eventually get better.
> 
> Chapter 3: New Player


	3. New Player

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Firstly I want to say a big thankyou to everyone who gave me kudos and an extra special thankyou to Max72 who commented! I love this story and I'm excited to see that other people are enjoying it as well.
> 
> A huge thankyou also goes out to my Beta's, Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot. 
> 
> The Spanish in this chapter was translated by jaguarspot. I am actually on the lookout for translators for Russian, German and French rather than relying on online programs to do the job so if you are interested please leave a note in the comments and I will get back to you.
> 
> I am an Aussie (kind of obvious by my username) and have been to Melbourne in November so I speak from personal experience regarding what I write about it.
> 
> Enjoy chapter 3!

* * *

 The Darkest hour is just before the Dawn. _Old Proverb_

* * *

  **Chapter 3: New Player**

_Melbourne, Australia: November, 1997_

Clint liked Melbourne. It was cheery, bright, and the people as a whole were very friendly. In fact the only thing he didn't like was the weather, rain, rain, and surprise, surprise, more rain. Clint thought for a country that was supposed to have more desert area in relation to its size than anywhere else on earth it certainly rained a lot.

It was raining now; Clint was huddled into a waterproof trench coat as he crouched in an alley running surveillance on his target who was staying in one of the most expensive 4 star hotels this city had to offer. Why the man didn't just go to an equally priced 5 star he didn't know, rich people were complicated people and he'd never understood them, but personally he was glad the man didn't. This job was already complicated enough without adding 5 star security to the mix.

Alvaro Sandino was a wealthy Spanish business man who was currently holidaying in Melbourne with his wife of five years, Marina. Clint's client wanted him dead. However, just after Clint had accepted the contract Sandino had decided he needed a holiday and proceeded to pack up half his house and travel halfway around the world to get it. Why the contract on Sandino couldn't wait until he got home was beyond Clint, but his client had been insistent on the matter, even paying him an extra 100 thousand (US dollars) on top of the agreed sum to do the job now, hence the reason Clint was in Australia.

Glancing at the face of his waterproof watch, which read 10 pm local time (he always set his watch to the local time, it was one of the first things he did upon arriving in a different country), Clint decided he'd done enough surveillance for one night. He didn't think the Sandino's would go anywhere in this weather at this time of night, they'd just gotten back from some nightclub or other where they'd had dinner not 10 minutes ago. Clint hated it when there was no rhyme or reason to his target's actions, all his life Clint had looked for patterns and lived with them. Random actions didn't make sense; he liked to get to know his targets' routines better than they did so he could strike when the environment was in his favour, when no one was expecting anything and there was a clear escape route for him. The Sandino's actions were completely random. Sleeping in to a different time every morning, staying out till all hours at night at various clubs, eating at lots of different cafes, restaurants and food stands like any normal tourist did, all these things were combining to make Clint's current job a nightmare.

Clint decided even if they went out again tonight he wasn't going to watch them any longer. He was cold and wet, and to top it all off water had somehow managed to invade his brand new guaranteed waterproof jacket and was now dripping down his neck, the cold water making him shiver. Definitely time to call it a day.

Just as he was about to move a taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, it was painted the yellow and black common to all taxis in Melbourne so was easy to spot. As Clint watched a figure walked out of the hotel and called over their shoulder to someone standing just inside the entrance. Clint could hardly believe his luck, the figure getting into the taxi was none other than Marina Sandino. She was calling out to her husband Alvaro, who was standing just inside the lobby out of the rain. Clint's heart beat faster as he heard what she said.

"Cariño voy a salir un par de horas, no me esperes despierto. ¡Pórtate bien mientras no estoy!) ( _I'll be back in a couple of hours sweetie, don't bother waiting up for me. Be a good boy while I'm gone!)_

This was perfect! All Clint had to do was eliminate Alvaro within the next hour and his wife wouldn't have a clue who had done it and wouldn't get involved in any way. Clint liked not getting the families of victims involved in the event if he could help it, they suffered enough with losing their loved ones. As the taxi drove away and Sandino went back indoors Clint debated his next move. He knew where the suite the couple had taken was located, on the fourth floor. He decided he'd have to go through the lobby of the building and use the elevator to get up there as the windows didn't open in their room; that was one of the first things he'd checked. As Clint was planning this the rain finally stopped, leaving him feeling more optimistic then he'd felt since the beginning about this job.

Clint walked up the steps to the hotel confidently, as if he was staying there. He knew the best way to blend into a situation was to act like you belonged and were comfortable, no matter what happened. It was a skill he'd learned at an early age that had always come in useful. All his weapons were hidden on his person; his special custom made bow was collapsed and concealed under his baggy black coat alone with a few arrows and of course his ever present knives, he never went anywhere without his knives.

Clint entered the lobby which was almost empty save for two or three people who looked bored, employees most likely. None of then gave him more than a glance, and all they saw was a man in a waterproof trench coat with a hood that was pulled right up, covering most of his face. He looked miserable and wet and like he just wanted a hot shower and to go to bed, no one thought there was anything unusual about that given the weather. Once Clint was in the elevator (which was empty save for him and not covered by a camera, he'd checked in advance) he rehearsed his plan in his head. The corridors on the third floor were deserted just as he'd hoped they would be, and the supply closet was within sight of the elevator and out of direct camera range. Cameras were installed at intervals; however that didn't worry Clint as there wouldn't be any cameras where he was going.

15 minutes later he stopped at the vent cover leading down into Sandino's room, the reason he was grateful the man hadn't decided to go with a 5 star. This building was old and had a large, open ventilating system; though it had been modernised technology-wise the size of the vents had remained the same. Sandino was fast asleep and snoring hard, so he didn't hear as Clint quietly removed his bow and snapped the limbs into place, careful not to move too much in the cramped space of the vent. The peaceful look on Sandino's face made Clint hesitate slightly before selecting an arrow; it was that slight hesitation that almost ruined his carefully made plans.

All Clint had to do was aim at Sandino's closed eye, ending this quickly. However Sandino chose that very moment to stir and mutter in his sleep before rolling over presenting his back to Clint. Angry with himself for the slight hesitation and losing the perfect eye shot as they were much easier when he couldn't get a good sight line to the chest Clint swiftly locked his emotions away and aimed for the man's heart.

Sandino didn't hear the slight noise of an arrow being carefully drawn so as not to hit anything, aimed between the bars of the vent cover (which were spaced surprisingly wide apart, again an old building feature) and then released with a slight hiss and the slap of a bowstring hitting an arm guard. Sandino wasn't aware when the arrow pierced his heart from behind, killing him instantly. He didn't hear his wife's screams when she arrived back almost three hours later and found him dead, a black shafted arrow sticking out of his back and the white hotel sheets he was lying on stained a deep red. He didn't hear anything ever again.

* * *

_Undisclosed location_

A knock sounded on the door of the office belonging to Colonel Nicholas Fury, a tall, dark skinned man who wore a black leather trench coat with a matching leather eye patch over his left eye. He was also the Director of a special government sponsored covert black ops/intelligence gathering organisation known as The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division, SHIELD to the layperson. Fury barked out a sharp 'enter' and didn't look up from his paperwork until his good friend and right hand man, Agent Phil Coulson, sat down on the opposite side of the desk. (He'd known who it was in advance as the door to his office consisted of one way glass so he could see out while no one could see in. It wasn't paranoia, it was survival instincts.)

He nodded a greeting and Phil returned it. Phil then spoke up.

"You asked to see me sir? I figured it must be urgent since you send for a face-to-face meeting instead of just dropping a file off. What's up sir?"

"Yes, I did ask to see you in person and enough with the 'sir' business Phil. I get enough of that from everyone else on this base. I don't know how often I have to tell you to call me Nick, or Fury, or even Director if you feel you must be more formal as I do direct this whole damn operation, just quit with the sir. I don't need it."

"Okay si-...I mean Nick."

 Fury ignored that in favour of picking up a file lying on his desk. He then fastened his good eye on Phil.

"We have a new player in the assassination game. They first appeared on our radar two days ago and I want more information on them."

Fury handed Phil the file which he opened. It contained just two sheets of paper; the first one only had two names written on it, one above the other.

"This assassin apparently goes by the name of Hawkeye, or so my contact told me. Just three days ago he took out a man named Alvaro Sandino when he was holidaying in Australia with his wife. Took him out while he was asleep in his own bed in his room on the fourth floor of a 4 star hotel I might add, I don't think anyone I know would be able to accomplish a feat like that without a whole lot of backup and help. Also, no one saw him or heard anything unusual, it's like he was invisible, or a ghost."

Fury actually looked slightly troubled for a moment before looking straight at Phil.

"I want to know everything you can find out about this assassin Phil. If he's going to be a threat to world security he'll need to be taken care of as soon as possible."

Phil frowned.

"How on earth did he take out someone when they were sleeping in their own bed in a hotel room? I presume you checked the security footage?"

"Yes." Fury didn't sound happy. "It was one of the first things I did when I heard what had happened; the police went through it as well. No one went in through that door until his wife returned from a party three hours later. No one exited the room during this time and the windows couldn't be opened. I have no idea how he managed to pull a stunt like this one off, but it can't be ignored. Sandino wasn't only a wealthy business man but apparently he was also very high up in an undercover section of the government over there. Even I don't know the exact details, it's all very hush-hush, but we have to follow up on this. The Spanish government are looking into why someone would want Sandino dead and who that is likely to be, but they've asked personally for our help in finding and stopping this assassin."

Phil looked thoughtful.

"How do we know it was this assassin? There are any number of them out there, some we know about, some we don't. What makes you so sure it was this" he referred to the piece of paper, "Hawkeye, who did the deed?"

"Sandino was killed with a single arrow through his heart and there's only one assassin on earth who's known to use arrows to carry out his hits."

"Arrows? Did you just say Sandino was killed with _arrows_?"

Fury hid a smirk at the incredulous look on Phil's face. It took a lot to produce that kind of facial reaction out of his best agent. In fact it took a lot to produce _any_ type of facial reaction out of said agent other than a raised eyebrow. Phil was famous for keeping a poker-face in place as the world fell apart around him. Not quite as famous as Fury was, but a pretty close second. Fury had simply had more practice at it.

This piece of news must have really surprised Phil. Fury understood how he felt, he'd felt pretty much the same when he'd first found this out. Phil was still in shock as he tried to wrap his head around what Fury had just told him.

"What kind of assassin uses ARROWS? They're like a...a dark age weapon, the type of things Robin Hood uses, the type of things that appear in movies, not the type of things that a modern day master assassin would use!"

"Yes, this mysterious marksman who we know virtually nothing about apparently acts like Robin Hood does in all the movies and uses arrows and presumably a bow to match. That's about all we've got to work on at the moment; I'm leaving it up to you to find out more. Don't disappoint me Phil; believe me I want to know how this happened just as much as you do. More than you do probably."

"Okay sir." Phil ignored the glare he received for his trouble and instead focused on skimming through what was written on the other sheet of paper, it was pretty much everything that Fury had just told him about this assassin, with a few other small details added. "I'll go and get started now. I'll let you know when I find out something of interest."

Fury nodded.

"Keep me updated. Good luck soldier."

"Thank you sir."

Fury looked up with murder gleaming in his one eye. Phil said hastily "Sorry _sir_ , I meant thanks _Nick_ " before he picked up the file and fled out the door. Fury was sure he heard a snicker just before the door closed fully.

Fury shook his head at the closed door, a smile tugging at his lips in spite of himself. Phil could be such a pain in the backside but Fury wouldn't want him any other way. Fury had been telling Phil for years to call him Nick when they were having a general conversation, yet Phil still insisted on addressing him as sir. Fury couldn't decide if Phil was simply being professional and showing some respect for his boss (as would have once been the case) or if he was doing it to be deliberately annoying. Knowing Phil as well as he did he suspected the later.

Over the course of their long friendship Phil had redefined the term annoying several times, and even taken it to a whole new level, one that Fury was sure shouldn't exist. Fury was damn proud of Phil however, and wouldn't let anyone in the organisation criticize or bad-mouth him. Coulson wasn't Fury's right hand man and his left eye for nothing, Fury knew that if anyone in the organisation had a chance of getting to the bottom of this problem it was Phil Coulson. And Fury was confident he would. All Fury had to do was sit back, give Phil a free rein, and wait for the results.

* * *

As Fury's office door clicked shut behind him Agent Phil Coulson walked down the corridor leading to the canteen, intending to get a fresh cup of coffee before heading back to his own office which was located a floor down from Fury's. On the way he thought about what Fury had told him.

Whoever this Hawkeye was he was obviously very good at remaining unseen and getting in and out of places undetected. Phil didn't know how he did it, unless he had invisibility or teleportation powers or could walk through walls. Any of these things were a possibility, what they knew about him at the moment could go on a postage stamp with room to spare. But it was best to go into any assignment with an open mind and not make any premature assumptions.

This was especially true when working with an elite US military/spy organisation that dealt with crazy and bizarre situations on an almost daily basis. The fact that this assassin killed with arrows of all things meant this case qualified as crazy already, and he hadn't even started his investigation. Phil was keen to see just what else he could find out.

Phil felt immensely grateful to Fury for giving him this assignment, and hoped that he wouldn't disappoint him. Someone of lesser rank could easily have done it; they didn't have a research department for nothing. This was only classified as a level 3 and Phil was a level 7 Agent directly below Director Fury and Alexander Pierce, the latter of whom didn't worry much about assignments or the day to day running of the organisation since getting promoted to a spot on the still brand new World Security Council. Using Phil's extensive skill set on this project might seem like a bit of a waste, but Fury knew how much Phil loved getting to the bottom of unusual problems and as Phil had no active assignments happening at the moment Fury had given this problem to him, no doubt in an attempt to keep him quiet and out of Fury's sight.

And this situation was certainly unusual, not to mention weird and vague. The only information they really had that was even halfway concrete was a name and the knowledge that this assassin used arrows to kill people with. Seriously, what kind of assassin uses arrows? A bow would take years of practice for someone to be able to use it with any real efficiency and was a lot more awkward then a gun to conceal and work with. Phil was really looking forward to finding out more about this enigmatic and elusive Hawkeye. He had a feeling that he was in for a wild ride.

* * *

**End of chapter 3.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil's finally on the Hawkeye case. Poor Phil, he really has no idea what he's in for! I hope that you will tune in again tomorrow for our next chapter.
> 
> Chapter 4: Follow the Arrows
> 
> Hope to see you then!


	4. Follow the Arrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> And here's chapter 4!
> 
> Also, thanks for the kudos and reviews guys! It makes me really excited. An extra special thanks also goes to peabodythecat who reviewed all three chapters in one go. It made my day so thank you! I'm glad you're all enjoying this, there is lots more to come.
> 
> As always this story would not be what it is without the input of my beta's, so a huge thanks to Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot! And mistakes that remain are mine and as copying and pasting from Word to AO3 seems to be doing funny things to the text if something doesn't make sense grammar-wise please let me know.
> 
> I used an online translator for the Russian in this chapter and hope that no one is offended. If any one would like to volunteer as a translator please comment and I will be in touch! I am also looking for French and German translators if anyone is interested.
> 
> Enjoy chapter 4!

* * *

 Every human walks around with a certain kind of sadness. They may not wear it on their sleeves, but it's there if you look deep. _Taraji P, Henson_

* * *

**Chapter 4: Follow the Arrows**

_Moscow, Russia: January 1998_

Clint shivered even though he was wearing long thermal _everything_ as well as an insulated coat, a thick beanie, boots made for the biting cold, skin-tight gloves and thick pants. All that and he was still cold.

"Worst places in the world to be 101; Russia in winter, unless you're inside with the heating turned to high." He thought to himself as he tried to think of warm places.

Clint put his hands deep in his trench coat pockets and kept his head down as he hurried along the street, the snow continued to drift down round him making the world white. At least his hearing aids hadn't frozen like the last set had when he'd been in snow, Clint knew the new pair were cold resistant to an incredible degree, but he'd still been warned that excessive exposure to cold would shorten their lifespan. Clint still didn't like them but he didn't really have a choice in the matter, an assassin who couldn't hear wouldn't last long in the world.

Clint was on his way to a meeting with a Russian millionaire who had contacted him personally and stated he wanted Hawkeye's specific skill set for a special job, and would pay him well for his trouble if he would just meet him in Moscow. Clint had been suspicious at first, it sounded like a setup, but the man had gone as far as to transfer half the agreed fee (which was a lot) into his account in advance. Clint had agreed because of that but was still on high alert for a set up and had all his senses tuned for an ambush. It didn't help that this part of town was seedy, with most buildings empty and falling apart, and looked completely devoid of human life.

As the building he was to meet his client in came into sight Clint ducked into an alleyway and did a quick check of his weapons to make sure he could reach them easily if the need arose. He then opened the backpack he was carrying and removed his bow and quiver. Clint settled the later on his back before locking the limbs of the bow into position and grasping it in his right hand. He was ambidextrous but found he was best with his left hand when it came to archery. After doing another check that his numerous knives were all within easy reach, Clint took a deep breath to calm his thudding heart, if something did go wrong with this meeting he had to be ready to deal with it and he could only do that if he was calm and focused. He figured his face was obscured enough with the scarf and beanie so he didn't bother to wear the mask he often used. Clint had gone into the alleyway but it was the assassin Hawkeye who stepped out and walked up the front steps of the building.

The front door opened with a screech that made him wince slightly as the sound went straight through his head. It led into a foyer area that was empty save for a blonde girl sitting behind a desk reading a book. She gave him one look, saw the bow, and pointed to a door just to the right of the desk which was closed.

"Через него, вы ожидали." ( _Through there, you're expected_.)

"Спасибо." ( _Thankyou_.)

Clint opened the appointed door. He understood Russian well enough to scrape by, though he needed much more practice in speaking it. He understood more words than he spoke and knew lots of very creative Russian swearwords thanks to the circus Strongman but he hadn't spent enough time in Russian countries to learn to speak it fluently.

The door led into a short corridor with another door at the end which stood partially open, yellow light spilling from it. Clint could hear low voices coming from behind it but couldn't understand what was being said, and as he halted outside the door and knocked the voices died down.

A sharp voice bid him "Введите" ( _enter_ ), so he did.

As he stepped into the room his eyes quickly took in everything inside. The room was small and brightly lit by two light bulbs. The plaster on the walls was faded and peeling, and there were no windows making the space feel very stuffy and cramped. In the centre of the room was a table with three chairs grouped around it. The two chairs facing the door were occupied and Clint took a good look at the two men sitting there.

The first one was short and heavily built, though the beginnings of a double chin suggested something other than muscle. He had black hair slicked back and a short neatly trimmed black beard, his dark eyes looked greedy and mean. He was wearing jeans and a black and green jacket with a thick gold necklace hanging around his neck. Someone obviously watches too many gangster movies, Hawkeye thought; the man was trying too hard to look intimidating.

The other man was taller and much more muscled; he had light brown hair and those same dark eyes. Probably a brother, Clint guessed. He was wearing a pressed black suit complete with tie and dress shoes, and was sitting stiffly in his chair; the way he was eyeing Hawkeye made it clear he was obviously very nervous about this meeting.

Standing, or rather slouching, against the wall behind them were four more men dressed alike in black leather and all carrying weapons, they were obviously their body guards. As Clint entered the room they straightened up and eyed him nervously, no one draw weapons but by the way they twitched it was obvious that they would like to. Hawkeye inwardly smirked, his reputation preceded him, and the bow in his hand made it unmistakable who he was. It was good they feared him; it gave him an advantage he could use if this meeting went south. Though Clint had no doubts he could take them all out if he needed to, and could have even if they weren't afraid of him.

* * *

Anton Barsukov, the shorter man, looked up as Hawkeye entered the room. He was slightly surprised by what he saw. For starters the man couldn't have been taller than 5 foot 10, and looked very young. Then he saw his eyes and quickly reversed his opinion, those eyes were dangerous. Despite his physical appearance Hawkeye was someone to be reckoned with. The bow held casually in his right hand, the full quiver slung over his back along with the wicked looking knife strapped to his leg only served to confirm this. And those were just the weapons he could see, Anton had no doubt there were more. Overall the picture pleased him, even if it was rather unsettling. He'd initially had his doubts about hiring Hawkeye to do this job, but now he was sure he'd made the right choice.

"Привет Соколиный глаз, это был хороший из вас приехать. Просьба занять место, поэтому мы можем говорить бизнес. Вы хотите говорить на английском языке или вы счастливы продолжить этот разговор на русском языке?" ( _Greetings Hawkeye, it was good of you to come. Please take a seat so we can talk business. Would you like to talk in English or are you happy to continue this conversation in Russian?_ )

"Я понимаю Русский, но во избежание недоразумений было бы легче говорить бизнес на английском языке." ( _I understand Russian, but to avoid misunderstandings it would be easier to talk business in English_ )

"I understand." Anton said in smooth English with only a slight accent. "This is a very important job and we must avoid misunderstandings at all costs. I am Anton, and this" he waved dismissively at the taller man next to him, "is my younger brother Viktor. Do not mind him; he is here to learn only and will not interrupt. Now let us talk business."

He removed a photograph from a pocket in his jacket and placed it on the table between them.

"This is who I want taken out, name's Grigory Vetrov, a retired engineer, but one who knows too much about me and my business for his own good. His address is on the back, you will receive the rest of the money we agreed upon when he's dead. Understood?"

Hawkeye studied the photo, no doubt memorizing everything about the man's face. Anton felt vaguely uneasy despite being sharp and hard about this meeting. This man so far had basically said nothing, and it was somewhat intimidating. The way his eyes had roamed over the room as he walked in was also spooky. His eyes were about all that could be seen due to the coat, scarf and hat he wore, likely on purpose so Anton couldn't get a good look at his face. And he never relinquished his grip on his bow, instead picking up the photo in his left hand. Anton was suddenly immensely glad he was the one hiring this man, and not the one who would be on the receiving end of his arrow. Anton put on a tough exterior and had to work on looking menacing but this man managed to be intimidating, menacing and everything else that goes with it without even appearing to try too hard.

"Okay. I will contact you when he's dead so you can transfer the rest of the money. After I make contact you'll have a 24 hour timeframe to deliver it. Don't try to cheat me as that makes me angry, and I'm not nice when I'm angry. And you won't be able to hide, there is nowhere in the world where I won't be able to find you if you try anything funny. You try to double-cross me; well, as they say, dead men tell no tales."

Anton decided right then and there that he would certainly be following Hawkeye's orders to the letter. The second he rang that money was being transferred. He might be a coward, a bully and a small-time aspiring crime lord but he wasn't stupid, this man was deadly. He nodded in agreement and smiled, showing all teeth and not much else due to his nerves.

"Of course, as soon as Vetrov is dead you'll get your money; I can assure you of that. A pleasure doing business with you Hawkeye."

Anton watched as the other man nodded, and just managed to suppress a shiver. Those man's eyes were enough to give a sane man nightmares for months, they were the eyes of a killer, a highly trained and experienced killer. After Hawkeye left Anton felt he could breathe again and was immensely glad it wasn't him the Hawk was after. Vetrov was a walking dead man already, he just didn't know it.

* * *

Phil Coulson was waiting outside Fury's office, thinking over his problem. He'd hit a very hard brick wall with his research into Hawkeye, so much so that he felt like banging his head against a real brick wall in frustration but had managed to stop himself, reasoning he'd be no good to anyone unconscious. He absolutely _had_ to get to the bottom of this, but he'd need Fury's help for what he had planned that might give him a lead, hence why he was currently waiting outside the man's office.

Almost two months had passed since Fury had first given him the task of finding out more about the mercenary Hawkeye. In that time Phil had dug deep in every place he could think of, and the results were almost zero. All he'd found out that they didn't already know was that Hawkeye was a name feared by all in the underworld. Phil also found out if you double-crossed him you wouldn't survive; this assassin liked to make a statement. The rumours and stories that Phil had heard through his underground contacts were pretty dark and grim and his message was very clear, 'don't mess with me if you value your life'. Phil could appreciate that message but apparently many others couldn't if some of the stories he'd heard about what his assassin did were even half true.

However, none of the information Phil had painstakingly uncovered in the course of his two months of research had been very helpful in finding out this assassin's identity.

What Phil had managed to find out was that he'd first appeared almost ten months ago, or at least his arrows had, he'd never been seen doing a job. After the incident in Melbourne Phil had watched every single second of security footage from that night and hadn't found anything suspicious; men wearing waterproof trench coats and women in waterproof jackets were all that he'd seen. He still had no idea how Hawkeye had managed to pull off that job and it was frustrating him no end. Phil didn't like not knowing something, curiosity was what killed the cat they said, but it hadn't killed Phil yet and so long as he was alive he'd continue to be curious. Or nosy, depending on whom you asked.

Killing under almost impossible situations seemed to be this mercenary's specialty, if the other places where arrows had been found were anything to go by. And that was it, no more information could be found. Hawkeye was, to all intents and purposes, a ghost. If it wasn't for his arrows Phil wasn't sure he'd believe he actually existed outside of being a myth or a patsy for the criminals who didn't want to be identified by having their own codename. There was just one option left that had yet to be exhausted, Phil didn't know if it would work but it was the only thing he had been able to come up with that might give him a lead as he was almost at his wits end.

Fury's voice from inside the office brought Phil out of his musings and back to the present. The door opened just then and Junior Agent Victoria Hand exited. Spying Phil her eyes widened slightly and she nodded at him respectfully as he was a higher level agent.

"The Director says you're to go in now, sir."

Phil nodded his thanks and entered the office, carefully shutting the door behind him. Fury was sitting at his desk watching Phil. There were spare chairs in the room but Phil elected to stand; he nodded a greeting at his boss. Fury looked at his agent and got right to the point.

"What's up Phil? I can tell by that look in your eye that you've got some big plan that you want my help with and that it's something I'll probably regret helping you with later. Is this anything to do with Hawkeye by any chance?"

Phil wasn't surprised Nick had guessed right, the man was scarily perceptive and finding Hawkeye was rapidly becoming an obsession of Phil's.

"Yes, it is. The thing is Nick; I've run into a dead end. I can't find any more information on him other then what we've already got. He, and we're only presuming this assassin is male as I haven't gotten confirmation either way, is a ghost and shadow hiding in a world that's full of both of them. The only solid thing about him is his arrows so I was wondering..."

"If I could somehow get you some of his arrows so you can play with them."

Fury finished Phil's sentence and Phil closed his mouth and nodded. It was a few moments before Fury spoke and when he did he looked very thoughtful.

"Actually, it's not a bad idea, providing we can get actually find some and get hold of them. What lead you expect to find on an arrow I'm not sure, but if that's what you want I'll see what I can do about it. Believe me; I want to know who this Hawkeye is just as much as you do."

"Thanks boss, I honestly don't know what else to do as my research has hit a dead end. At least if I have something solid that we know for certain belonged to him I might feel like we're getting somewhere, unless his arrows are as intangible as he seems to be."

"Well, I'll see what I can do about it Phil, but this won't be easy. I can't make any promises."

"Thanks Nick, I really appreciate this. Let me know when you find anything, and good luck."

"Will do Phil. By the way, you might as well take this paperwork with you now; it'll save me having to deliver it to you later. It's about that op in Bolivia; Agent Hand was just dropping off her report regarding it and I'm still waiting on yours."

Phil almost groaned at the pile of paper Fury pointed out. It was huge, and paperwork was the last thing he felt like doing just now. He was sure he hadn't signed a form upon joining S.H.I.E.L.D that stated there would be so much paperwork. He picked it all up and turned to go, but just before he reached the door he was struck with inspiration. He turned back to face Fury who looked up from his work at him with a raised eyebrow that rapidly turned into a frown as Phil smiled sweetly at his boss.

"You know SIR, that I really appreciate all this, don't you SIR? All this help you're giving me SIR."

"Get out of my office NOW!"

* * *

The Hawk was on his perch. He'd set up his surveillance post on top of the closed-down cinema located almost directly across the street from his target's house, the roof had just the right amount of flat and sloping surfaces. He'd been observing for 8 days now, and what stuck out most was that Vetrov only left the house twice; he was a real home body. Groceries were delivered right to his door along with whatever else he needed. The two times he left were very significant though, they were the nights a local band played live at a small club not far away. They played there twice a week, always the same nights. Tomorrow night they were due to be performing again, and Clint was pretty sure his target would go out to see them, and that would be his chance. Vetrov always took a taxi to the actually place but had to walk the distance from his front step to the road and so would leave himself exposed for just enough time for Clint to do this. For anyone else this job would be almost impossible, but Clint wasn't just anyone.

Seeing the lights go out in the house across the street Clint decided to call it a night, this man was normal in every way and slept at night so it was pointless to keep watching him, especially when he'd already decided on a plan of action. Clint gathered the few things he'd brought with him on the surveillance trip and climbed down from the roof. He rounded the corner of the building on silent feet only to run into something soft, warm and solid that was being equally quiet.

"Oof." He gasped and then before he could react or do more than blink the other person had pinned him up against the wall and was holding a knife to his throat. All that registered with the snow and growing darkness was the person was wearing black everything like him, and had long red curls that flowed out from under a beanie, before a soft female voice hissed in his ear.

"Что вы здесь делаете? Вы бы лучше Скажи мне правду, или я убью вас. Почему вы сохранение вкладок на Ветрова?" ( _What are you doing here? You'd better tell me the truth or I'll kill you. Why are you keeping tabs on Vetrov?_ )

Clint decided to tell the truth, or at least stay on the line of truth.

"Я делаю свою работу." ( _I'm doing my job_ )

"И только то, что работа это будет?" ( _And just what job would that be?_ )

Clint didn't reply to that, instead he decided it was time to turn the tables. He didn't like others invading his personal space, and he definitely didn't like a knife been held to his throat, come to think of it he didn't like _anything_ being held to his throat, it never ended well either way. Clint figured it was time to do something about it now while this girl was talking and hopefully slightly distracted.

A little less than 5 minutes later he had her pinned to the ground and unable to move, he was holding _his_ knife to _her_ throat. He had to admit she was good, he'd had to use every trick he knew to take her down and had likely only succeeded in the end because she'd lost her knife and been distracted for half a second; once that had happened his superior size and weight had won out. He had lost his scarf and hat in the process, but then she had lost hers as well. In spite of winning the fight Clint still had a pretty good gash on his arm that he'd have to see to later and some bruised ribs. He was sure she at least had a few bruises. For the moment however his injuries were nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

"Теперь это моя очередь задавать вопросы. Что вы здесь делаете, и почему вы хотите знать, что я делаю? Кто вы работаете для?" ( _Now it's my turn to ask questions. What are YOU doing here and why do you want to know what I'm doing? Who do you work for?_ )

Her deep green eyes bored into his, and he could clearly see the anger blazing in them. She attempted to move but he was holding her down in a way that made it nearly impossible, though if she'd really wanted to she could probably have gotten away, the way she'd handled herself in their fight had told Clint she was very highly trained. Clint was grateful for those lessons spent learning mixed-martial arts and self defence techniques in Asia, he'd realised he needed some more advanced training in hand-to-hand very early on. He wasn't expecting a straight answer to his question and not wanting to hurt her unnecessarily as she was obviously just doing her job like he was Clint was unsure what he was going to do next.

Therefore, it was a surprise to him when she spoke not in Russian but in English.

"You're American, aren't you?" She barely whispered, her accent definitely Russian. "I can tell by your accent. They're teaching me to speak American. My bosses want to know who hired you to kill Vetrov. Just tell me who did and there'll be no more trouble."

Clint had to concentrate hard not to let his guard down as he answered her in Russian, the fact she'd spoken English made it difficult for him to stay focussed.

"Дайте мне одна хорошая причина, почему я должен сказать вам, что вместо того чтобы просто убить тебя прямо сейчас." ( _Give me one good reason why I should tell you that instead of just killing you right now_ )

Her gaze didn't waver.

"Because if you do that my bosses won't be pleased and will most likely hunt you down and finish you off for killing a valuable asset. They aren't worried about Vetrov dying if that's what you're worried about; they simply want to know who ordered his death as it's on their turf."

Clint thought about that as he looked into her eyes, trying to see if she was telling the truth. He was normally pretty good at reading people but she wore an unreadable mask. That mask couldn't hide everything to someone with Clint's eyesight however, and he saw a glimpse of something else in those eyes that made his heart hit rock bottom, it was like looking into his own soul. In that brief moment Clint read darkness, hopelessness, loneliness and a whole lot of other things all rolled into one. This girl was as lost and broken as he was, and she couldn't have been any older than him either. With this realisation instead of answering her question Clint asked her one.

"If I let you get up can I trust you not to attack me? It's a little hard to have a conversation like this with someone when you've got them pinned to the ground, so I'll make a deal with you. I let you get up, as a result you don't attack me, I answer your question, and you answer one of mine. How's that sound? We both get what we want without getting hurt."

He saw a brief flicker of what may have been confusion pass through her eyes before it was gone, replaced instead by a look of cool determination.

"Agreed." She said, her Russian accent very clear.

Clint got off her and allowed her to stand up. He kept his knife in his right hand however, and he noticed she picked up the knife she had dropped in their earlier scuffle without taking her eyes off him and didn't bother to re-sheath it. They stood there eyeing each other for a moment before Clint spoke.

"The man's name was Anton Barsukov. That's all I know about him."

It actually wasn't all he knew; he knew more details about this man but figured a name was all she needed to know, it was time to find out something about her.

"Now my turn for a question sweetheart, a deal is a deal. Who are you working for and why would they be concerned about an old man's death?"

She glared daggers at him for a few moments because of the nickname (Clint wondered if he'd gone too far, she was obviously another assassin and it wasn't a good idea to piss off assassins, he would know after all) before she opened her mouth and replied.

"I work for an organisation that is concerned for the safety of this country."

He realised as she looked at him tight-lipped with blazing green eyes that was all he would get out of her. Still he had the answers to his question, time to end this meeting.

"Are we good to go now that you've got your answer?" He refrained from saying sweetheart this time, he kind of wanted to live another day if that was an option.

She nodded once, and looking at her without her hat and scarf obscuring her features Clint became fully aware of just how pretty she was. Her hair was, as he'd already noticed, bright red, long and curly. She had long eyelashes and her features were breathtakingly beautiful, even in the dim light. The darkness in her soul, however, was unmistakable. Clint sheathed his knife and watched as she did the same. She then slipped away from him like a shadow, but just before she reached the corner he spoke up, not really knowing why he did but meaning every word.

"Удачи." ( _Good luck._ )

She paused and turned back to face him. She must have read the sincerity in his eyes because she gave him a stiff nod and replied tersely.

"Так же вам." ( _Same to you._ )

Then she was gone, leaving Clint wondering if he had actually heard those last words or had imagined them. Clint shook his head, trying to clear it of the image of her eyes. They reminded him to much of himself, and that wasn't a good thing. Right now he had a job to do and couldn't afford to be distracted any more than he already had been, after all his life depended on him being able to do his job no matter what happened.

* * *

The Taxi driver, the only eye witness to the event, later reported that the arrow that ended Vetrov's life had come out of nowhere. He hadn't even known what was happening until after Vetrov had suddenly dropped to the ground with an arrow through his eye and by then it was too late to do anything. The mystery of Vetrov's death joined hundreds of other files on unsolved homicides which were collecting dust in the local police station archives and having no living relatives the old man was quickly forgotten.

The rest of the money for the hit was transferred into an offshore bank account immediately following the awaited phone call and the bird had flown almost before the dead man hit the ground.

* * *

**End of chapter 4.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One guess as to who the mysterious redhead is! I think that everyone but Clint knows the answer to that one. In case you're wondering I didn't mark Natasha in the tags as I wanted her appearance to be a surprise.
> 
> I hope you will tune in tomorrow for our next instalment of Shades of Red and Black;
> 
> Chapter 5: Paris
> 
> See you then!


	5. Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Hi all, sorry I didn't update earlier but I was away last night and didn't have my laptop with me so I couldn't update until now. 
> 
> As usual I want to credit my beta's Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot with helping me make this story that much better. 
> 
> The German is courtesy of Microsoft Word translator. 
> 
> Enjoy chapter 5, we finally have action, yay!

* * *

 Determination gives you the resolve to keep going in spite of the roadblocks that lay before you. _Denis Waitley_

* * *

**Chapter 5: Paris**

_Paris, France: February, 1998_

It was good to be home. Despite the fact he spent more time travelling than anything else Clint still saw the small flat he rented on a month-by-month basis in Paris as the closest thing he had to a home. It was located on the top floor of a small apartment building in a working class part of the city meaning it had a fire escape and at least two other ways to exit if he needed to without going through the rest of the building.

Partially because Paris was the first city he'd ended up in after fleeing Afghanistan just over a year ago and partially because French was the first foreign language he'd learned to speak back when he was a teenager he had formed an attachment to the city which he now tentatively called home. He'd come a long way from his first pitiful attempts at French, he could speak the language flawlessly with virtually no accent these days; no one ever gave him a second glance. Though any native speaker he spoke with for any length of time could usually pick out he wasn't French by birth; to the casual observer he could easily be a native.

He liked the city well enough, though he still couldn't think of America without feeling a pang of homesickness, even if his memories of his life there weren't nice. But there was no way he could go back, it simply wasn't safe. Besides what would he do there if he did go back?

The soldier Clint Barton was believed to be dead and had a court martial hanging over his head either way; Hawkeye was a wanted criminal in half the countries of the world and more than likely on several agencies and governments' hit lists. And let's not get started on the number of criminal organisations who wanted him dead.

Clint was well aware he wasn't popular. There was nowhere safe he could go if he retired from this job and so he just had to go on doing what he did best, being the man who never missed. That reputation, which was once his pride and joy, was now a curse. If only he was like other people he never would have gotten into all this mess in the first place. He would never have been noticed in the circus all those years ago and the betrayals, jealousy, lies, hatred and dishonesty that was his life story may never have happened.

* * *

"No, no, NOOO!"

Clint woke up with a start, the metallic smell of blood and the guard's evil laugh still fresh in his mind. He was breathing fast and covered in a layer of perspiration in spite of the chilly room, involuntarily his left hand had gone to the scar on his throat. Clint gulped as he sat bolt upright and desperately tried to calm himself down.

He hated nightmares. They were so frequent and seemed so real. His traitorous brain twisted his memories while he slept when he didn't have any control over them. That was what he hated most, the lack of control. He'd never admitted it to anyone and wouldn't ever admit it but not been in control scared him; all the times he'd been hurt in his life had happened when he wasn't in control. Control, he needed to be in control of what happened if he was to live.

The last nightmare was still fresh in his mind, blood, so much blood, and the pain, the white-hot blinding pain as they'd tortured him. Suddenly the roof felt like it was falling on top of Clint and the walls were too close; breathe, he had to breathe. Clint was having a difficult time doing that and realised he needed to get out in the fresh air for a while.

Clint swiftly dressed, pulling on dark jeans and a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt with a jacket over it as it was still winter in this part of the world after all. He laced up his boots and was about to head out the door when he paused. He didn't know what made him turn, pick up his bow and quiver of arrows with hands that still trembled slightly, or go down the fire escape on the outside of the building before jumping onto the roof belonging to the next house over, but something did, some feeling, and he'd learnt to trust his feelings a long time ago. Clint started away from the apartment, sticking to the shadows on the rooftops, not that there were many people around in this part of town at this time of night to see him. But these days being invisible was almost second nature to him and certainly didn't hurt given his profession.

As he parkoured through the famous city Clint felt himself slowly calming down as the dark memories the nightmare had dredged up left him. To most people swinging off and around things and jumping through things 5 or more stories above the ground wouldn't have been relaxing, but Clint wasn't like other people. Heights calmed and soothed him, he felt safe and in control when he was up high and could see without being seen. Even though the quiver made his movements a little more awkward then normal he was still almost as graceful as a cat in the way he moved. He wasn't sure why he'd brought his bow and arrows with him, he had his knives after all, but they were here and he didn't waste time and energy trying to think of the reason.

Sometime later he landed in an empty alley 10 blocks or so away from his apartment feeling slightly winded but much calmer than when he had started out. The last remnants of the nightmare were thankfully almost gone and Clint felt calm and focused again. He was heading out of the alley when some inner instinct told him to duck, which he did, and seconds later a bullet ripped through the air right where his head had been moments before.

So much for a quiet solitary walk, he just couldn't get a break from people trying to kill him could he?

Clint rolled behind a truck parked in the alley before grabbing his bow off the hook on his quiver, snapping the limbs into place and pulling out an arrow. Peering cautiously around the side he was able to easily make out a figure lying on the rooftop two blocks over. The way he was laying on the roof half hidden behind a beam meant there wasn't a clear line of sight for Clint to take a good shot at him.

The sniper rifle he'd just used to take a shot at Clint _was_ in his line of sight however.

Thinking quickly Clint made his decision. Knowing that even the best marksman would take a few seconds to see him in the shifting shadows of the alley, even through a scope, Clint stepped out from behind the truck and had an arrow drawn, aimed and fired before the enemy realised he was out in the open again and had had time to pull the trigger. His first arrow shattered the scope of the rifle and the man's head jerked up in surprise just in time for him to take a second arrow straight through his right eye.

Clint watched in grim satisfaction as the figure suddenly jerked back as the arrow pierced his brain, instantly killing him before the body collapsing onto the roof next to the damaged rifle. Serves him right for trying to kill Hawkeye, you'd think people would have learnt that wasn't a good idea by now.

Hearing the sound of boots behind him made Clint spin around, an arrow already notched, and he'd taken down two of them before the others registered what he was doing. Not counting the two already down there was seven of them, and all seven were pulling out guns and knives. Not good news, time for something creative. Clint dived back behind the truck as they opened fire at him, earning himself a bullet graze to his leg in the process, which he ignored for now in favour of thinking quickly. Making split decisions on the fly was something he'd always been good at, it was just one of his little known skills. Clint looked around desperately for a way out of his current predicament and then his eyes landed on the ladder built into the side of the truck he was currently crouching behind.

Clint was on top of the truck in seconds, ignoring the pain from his injured leg. Just in time too as it turned out, the idiots went around the side of the truck he'd just been on, still firing. Then the firing abruptly stopped, they'd realised he wasn't there. Clint tensed, readying his bow in case one of them thought to climb up the ladder, but apparently the idea never crossed their minds. People never do think of looking up for things, Clint had experienced the truth of that statement more than once. Instead they began arguing in German; Clint kept his breathing low and listened.

"Wo ist er? Haben Sie eine Ahnung, wie viel Mühe wir in sein werde, wenn er entkommt?" ( _Where'd he go? Do you have any idea how much trouble we'll be in if he escapes?_ )

"Woher soll ich wissen, wohin er ging, Fritz, ich bin kein Zauberer. Es ist deine Schuld, die er nicht da ist." ( _How should I know where he went, Fritz, I'm not a magician. It's your fault that he's not here._ )

"Wie genau ist es meine Schuld? Wessen war Plan dies überhaupt?" ( _How exactly is it my fault? Whose plan was this anyway?_ )

As Clint listened to the two of them bickering he heard another voice butt in.

"Shut up you two, he can't have gotten far away so start looking instead of arguing. I honestly don't know why you were allowed to come with us in the first place."

The third voice sounded very German though he was speaking good English, the other two were apparently German as well. Clint had heard enough however, he had no idea why these people wanted him dead but they obviously did. There was no way out of this alive unless he killed them first, which Clint really didn't want to have do but he realised there was really no other choice in the matter.

As a rule Clint preferred to run first, a habit born from always being small for his age and an easy target for bullying and abuse. Later on as he'd gotten older he'd learnt to fight and was now very good at hand-to-hand. Though running was till his preferred option in any circumstances he knew how to fight and could hold his own if he had to. And he'd better do this quickly before the police or some form of authority arrived as all those shots would likely have alerted them, this part of the neighbourhood wasn't totally deserted. Clint looked around him, his sharp eyes analysing everything quickly as he made his decision.

He placed the bow back on his quiver and silently stood up on the truck's roof, thankful that he'd left the skyscrapers and big buildings behind him and that the buildings in this part of the city had lower roofs; this one was single story which made his job much easier, he'd done harder manoeuvres in the circus then what he was about to do now, he just had to make sure he timed it right so he wouldn't hurt himself.

Clint lined up and took a short run before jumping towards the roof of the neighbouring building. He grabbed the lip of the roof with his fingers before kicking off the wall of the building and using the momentum to flip his body up and over the lip in a backward summersault like he'd being taught to do. Thanks to his circus training he landed lightly on the roof on his feet but still rolled over a couple of times to lessen the impact. His wounded leg screamed in protest to the jarring it received due to this action but he managed to ignore it, there would be plenty of time to deal with it later, once people had stopped trying to kill him.

The shouting below let him know he'd been seen and grabbing his bow off the quiver he began rapidly firing arrows at anyone he could see, dodging a few bullets that found their way onto the roof, for mercenaries these guys were really bad shots. He'd dropped four of them before the remaining three realised charging out into the open wasn't a great idea and would most likely get them killed. Clint snorted, seriously how dumb can these people be? For mercenaries this bunch officially sucked. Just then Clint heard a slight noise behind him and cursed under his breath as he realised he'd been concentrating so hard on taking down the people on the ground in front of him that he'd neglected to watch his back and as a result he was no longer alone on the roof.

* * *

Hans swore as he saw the other mercenaries that had been hired taken out so easily by the archer. He'd warned them Hawkeye was dangerous but they refused to listen, the fools. All they could think about was the amount of money they'd receive, and how famous they'd be for killing the notorious assassin Hawkeye, amateurs. It didn't occur to them that he would likely kill them first, the incompetent idiots. There the archer was on the roof now, calmly picking the others off one by one like flies while dodging the few stray bullets that miraculously found their way onto the roof. Hans was never accepting a job with amateurs again.

It was well know that this assassin Hawkeye was unbeatable long distance, the stories about that were legendary, but was he that good hand-to-hand, without his beloved bow? Nothing had ever been said about it in the underworlds shadows as the archer seemed to avoid physical confrontations, striking from a distance and disappearing before anyone even knew he was there most of the time, the only evidence to show he had been there was the single arrow that had killed its victim. Hans considered himself to be something of a master at hand-to-hand combat and besides, it was time to do something about this cocky archer. Hans was bigger and stronger and was sure using the element of surprise he'd be the one to finally take out Hawkeye. He wasn't the boss's prize hitter for nothing.

* * *

Clint spun around with an arrow at the ready only to have it knocked out of his hand and his bow kicked out of range, and even though it didn't fall off the roof it was now out of play. Clint managed to duck the first punch but wasn't quite quick enough for the second one, it landed painfully on his ribs and he felt one crack. He stumbled back and being distracted for a half second by the pain from his rib he didn't see the hand swing at his head and connect with it, sending him sprawling flat on his back onto the roof gasping and seeing stars. The man then proceeded to pick him up and hold him by the throat, looking at Clint with cold hard eyes that had a hint of smug triumph in them.

He was several feet taller than Clint was and the way he was holding him meant that Clint's toes just brushed against the ground. Not good, not good at all. Now the man was hissing at him in heavily accented English. Clint supposed whoever had sent him had told him Clint spoke English as the man's English wasn't very good. Little did they know that Clint actually spoke German fluently.

"Not tough now are we? I knew you were coward all along, how could you be anything else; only coward can't go close and personal when he makes kill, but must do so from distance without looking in victims eyes. Only weak snake like you strikes from distance."

Clint felt his blood boiling at the man's sneering words. He wasn't a coward; he knew that much and he also knew something about hand-to-hand fighting. He could also look in a person's eyes as he killed them, he simply saw better from a distance and it was much safer. The confidant way this man was holding Clint and had not even bothered to check him for weapons or kill him straight away, instead wanting to monologue, made Clint suspect he probably didn't have a lot of brains, he certainly seemed more like the brawn part of the equation. Clint had been pretty well motionless up to now and knew he could use that to his advantage. From the way he was being held right now Clint knew this man wouldn't be prepared to deal with Clint's near superhuman agility and skills. That gave him an advantage which Clint didn't waste time in using.

Clint ignored the pain of his broken rib, his sore head and his bleeding leg as he suddenly grabbed hold of the man's right arm and after pushing off the ground with the toe of his right foot he twisted his body up and around with the agility and grace that only an acrobat or highly trained ballerina could ever hope to achieve; even then they'd have to have incredible upper body strength and very strong arms to do it without pulling a muscle or breaking their arm. Clint's pulled the man's hand with him as he twisted around, further and further back until he heard the arm crack and go limp as the man's grip relaxed. The surprised gasp of pain from the man as he stumbled back was all Clint heard before he felt a knife glance off his side, great, that was just what he needed.

Spinning around and dodging a clumsy blow from the man's other hand Clint grabbed one of his own throwing knives from his belt and threw it, aiming for the thug's heart. Normally he would have hit it no problem, world's best marksman remember?; however, the concussion he'd developed combined with the poor light culminated to make his aim a little off. Instead of hitting the mercenary's heart like Clint had intended it to the knife ended up landed slightly to the left of it; however it certainly succeeded in stopping him.

The man gurgled, his eyes wide and terrified as his left hand feebly clutched at the knife as he crumbled slowly to the ground gasping for air. Blood started trickling out of his mouth as his eyes glazed over and Clint realised he'd hit a lung and the man was suffocating to death, unable to breath while his lung slowly filled with blood. Good riddance, but Clint didn't want to see him suffer, even though this thug had tried to kill him. Clint didn't enjoy causing suffering and pain, in spite of killing people for a living he always made sure the marks didn't suffer more than they had to; his kills were quick and clean. Without conscious thought Clint pulled his knife out of the man's chest and swiftly cut his throat with it, putting him out of his misery, before wiping it clean on the man's clothes and putting it back in its sheath on his own belt.

A quick search of the man's body revealed he had nothing useful on him and hearing the sound of sirens heading his way Clint decided it was high time to get out of here. 5 bodies lying on the ground below him with arrows sticking out of them and him having a quiver were likely to lead to a lot of difficult questions, or no questions at all depending on what mood the cops were in. Not to mention the body on the roof two blocks over and of course there was also the one on this roof. Clint silently cursed that he didn't have time to collect his arrows, it would be undeniable who had been here, but then you did have to make a statement sometimes. This way at least everyone would know who'd killed these people, and it would serve as a warning to whoever might think of coming after him themselves.

Clint grabbed his bow, which miraculously hadn't fallen off the roof, before beating a hasty retreat via the roofs. He didn't know where the three mercenaries he'd failed to kill were so he kept a sharp lookout and took several detours to throw anyone who was following off his trail on his way back to his apartment but he didn't see them again.

Back home he showered then sat on his bed as he cleaned and dressed the bullet wound on his leg and the knife wound in his side, neither of which were too serious, and wrapping up his broken rib, which was slightly more serious and significantly more painful but then anything to do with bones normally was. Clint realised with regret that tomorrow he'd have to find another apartment, he didn't know if his enemies were aware of this one but he couldn't take the risk. He knew it was stupid of him but he'd kind of gotten used to his place, it suited his needs. Clint knew better than to get really attached to any one place or thing anymore, he'd learnt the hard way that all you know and trust can be taken from you in the blink of an eye leaving you worse off then you were before it had come along in the first place.

Feeling bruised, battered and exhausted Clint took a couple of aspirin for the pain even though he hated drugs before he collapsed onto the single bed and buried his face in the pillow. Despite his exhaustion sleep was a long time in coming. Eventually he managed to doze off, but Clint spent most of that night restlessly tossing and turning (as much as his rib would allow him to anyway) as he listened for any intruders on his apartment. Needless to say, it was a long night.

* * *

Agent Phil Coulson of The Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division was waiting. He was good at that.

It had been over three weeks since he'd asked Fury if he could get him an arrow, and so far there'd been nothing. Not even a whiff of Hawkeye or his arrows. Phil was a patient man, but the tension of just waiting for something to happen was starting to get on his nerves. He sipped his freshly made coffee and sighed before diving into the pile of paperwork lying on his desk. It wasn't going to fill itself out and he needed something to occupy his mind, it was paperwork or sparring with Agent May, and he didn't feel quite up to the bruises the latter would incur at this point in time.

Five hours and several cups of coffee later Phil had finally finished filling out forms and had filed everything neatly away in its current place. He sat slumped back in his chair, mentally exhausted but too wound up on caffeine to rest as present, when his phone rang. Irritably glancing at the caller ID he saw that it was Fury. Feeling suddenly very hopeful Phil flipped it open and answered with a sharp 'sir'.

"Phil, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?" The director's voice sounded slightly annoyed as it came over the line. "For that I have a good mind not to tell you what we just found."

Phil suddenly felt even more hopeful.

"And just what is that Fury?"

"Why don't you come to my office and I'll show you in person. You're going to love this."

Phil was already halfway out of his chair.

"I'm on my way Director."

Phil raced towards the door as he struggled into his jacket, almost hitting his hand on the doorpost in the process but managing to emerge from his office unscathed. Maybe, just maybe, Fury had finally managed to find what Phil had been waiting for.

* * *

Fury passed the plastic bag containing four bloodstained arrows, one of which was snapped in half, over his desk.

"Here you go Phil. I managed to get you four, but they're not in the best condition."

The delight in Phil's eyes made Fury think of a kid let loose in a candy store. He obviously didn't mind the mess the arrows were in.

"Thank you Director, these are just what I wanted. At least now I know that this archer is real. Where did you find these?"

"Paris. I had to twist and pull a few strings and call in quite a few favours to get hold of them for you. It seems a few nights ago our mysterious assassin was attacked. Going by the 6 bodies, several of them known mercenaries, that local police found at the scene with arrows through them, and the one that had been stabbed in the chest before having his throat cut, along with the lack of bow and quiver lying around I'd say he won. So, what exactly are you planning to do with this little lot?"

"I'm not sure at this point. I just wanted something tangible to work with. I think I'll run some tests and see if I can pick up anything on them that could point us towards identifying this assassin; it may be hard to isolate any DNA though as who knows who has handled these. Still, I have to start somewhere."

Phil left the office and Fury settled down to work. Fury knew Phil had a daunting task ahead of him; those arrows would indeed be full of DNA from who knew how many different people. Still, if anyone could isolate something all of them had in common it was Phil, especially with the advanced SHIELD technology he had at his disposal. They weren't the best at what they did for nothing.

* * *

_Three weeks later, same location, still undisclosed_

Phil and a young lab worker called Amanda Taylor who had a PhD in genetics and DNA analyses had been working on the four arrows Fury had gotten hold of for three weeks. Well, Phil had been working at it whenever he could; Amanda had been at it heaps more as this kind of thing was in her job description. They had indeed found so much DNA on them that it had proved impossible to isolate any of it. Right now they were both in the lab discussing what they were going to do next.

"I honestly don't know what else we can find on these four arrows sir."

Amanda, or Mandy as she like to be called, was a cheerful girl with shoulder length blonde hair that spent most of its time tied back and laughing blue eyes. She was in her early twenties, having graduated from college with her PhD at a very young age. "We've tried finding a DNA that is common to them all and that failed. We've put them through all the tests and the programs we can think of, and now we're back to square one. Do you have any more ideas Agent Coulson?"

Phil really wished he did but right now his mind was completely blank.

"No, I don't at this time Dr. Taylor. I think I'll have to sleep on this. There has to be some way of getting some information we can use out of these arrows, we just haven't thought of it yet. I refuse to give up on this."

Mandy nodded in agreement, she was more frustrated over their failure so far then Coulson was. After all she'd done a college degree for this sort of thing and had excelled at it, resulting in SHIELD recruiting her the second she graduated. But what the older agent was saying now did make sense.

"So we leave it for a day or so, and see if we come up with anything new to try then?"

"Pretty much, let me know if you come up with anything."

"I will do sir."

They talked about general stuff as they placed the arrows back in their individual sealed plastic bags before locking them safely away for the night so no one could tamper with them. Then they bid each other good-night and went their separate ways.

* * *

Later that night Phil was up watching a late night movie. He had been unable to sleep and had needed something to take his mind off everything that was happening, or in the case of identifying who Hawkeye was, not happening. He was watching with mild interest as the cop chased the baddy across the parking lot in a way that would never work in real life while trying not to think about his current problem with the arrows. Phil was almost asleep from sheer boredom and was just about to turn off the TV when he heard something that made his hand freeze above the remote. He remained motionless as he stared at the TV screen.

"If you're so sure this is the right person then what proof do you have?" The Judge was asking the lawyer for the persecution at the trial. The lawyer looked extremely phony to Phil's experienced eye, but then it _was_ a movie. However, it was the lawyers' answer that had caught his attention.

"Your honour, the fingerprints at the scene of the crime exactly matched those taken from the prisoner upon his arrest. It can't be a coincidence..."

But that was all that Phil heard.

Fingerprints, they hadn't thought to check the arrows for bloody _fingerprints_.

They'd been so caught up in trying to find things out the high tech way that they'd forgotten something as simple as that. All four arrows would have the archer's prints on them, most likely up near the fletching; unless he wore gloves all the time which was most unlikely, even for a world renowned master assassin.

Phil and Mandy had been handling the arrows wearing gloves from the beginning because that's what you did with these sorts of things so Phil knew their prints wouldn't be on them. This might not be much, but it was a fresh lead, and Phil felt some of his anxiety melt away and be replaced by excitement as he made his decision. He almost headed out right then and there to tell Mandy before realising it was almost midnight, and though he was currently wide awake he remembered that some people in SHIELD actually worked what could be called fairly regular office hours. Phil decided that he'd let Mandy sleep, they at least had something new to try now. The morning would be soon enough to run the tests.

* * *

**End of chapter 5.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil may finally have made a breakthrough! It's funny how in today's high tech world we often forget what's tried and proven simply because it isn't fancy. I hope to see you all again tomorrow for the next step of the journey as we see if Phil finds anything on the arrows;
> 
> Chapter 6: Bleeding Souls


	6. Bleeding Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Just a quick heads up that this chapter is somewhat dark when compared to the rest of the story. It is actually my favourite chapter of all of them and what gave this story its name. It contains pretty much all the elements that I could possibly cram into Clint's backstory, which is a lot. I have meshed comics, fanfiction ideas and canon in a way that works for what I have planned. Without giving too much away I want you to know that this chapter isn't all sunshine; but then I don't think any of them really have been.
> 
> As usual thanks goes out to my beta's Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot.
> 
> I'll shut up now and let you enjoy chapter 6!

* * *

 We fear violence less than our own feelings. Personal, private, solitary pain is more terrifying than what anyone else can inflict. _Jim Morrison_

* * *

**Chapter 6: Bleeding Souls**

_March, 1998_

Vienna in March was breathtakingly beautiful. It was too early in the year for the throngs of tourists that the city experienced later in summer, so for the most part the only people present were those that actually lived there. Locals thronged the cobbled streets and alleys talking, laughing, trading, working and playing. The historic buildings located alongside the modern inventions of cars, trams, cell phones and powerlines spoke of a rich heritage and a desire to keep up with the modern world. Overall Vienna was beautiful, bright and welcoming to those who visited her, three things that Hawkeye didn't feel in the mood for at the moment.

Clint had come to Vienna to do yet another job. Normally that wouldn't have bothered him much, but this time his target was different. He was a loving family man, a father to 4 children, all of whom were under the age of ten. He was in his early thirties and was living happily with his wife and kids in a picturesque part of the city. Clint hadn't realised the man had kids when he'd taken the contract on him, if he'd known at the time he would probably have refused.

He'd done it a few times before and the rumours that had spread as a result said that he refused the jobs because they were too easy, they were beneath his abilities and didn't present enough of a challenge. The real reason was that they all involved children in some way, whether they or their parents were the target. He couldn't stomach the thought of killing children and due to been an orphan himself Clint knew what it was like first hand to not have parents, and didn't want to wish what he'd been through as a child on anyone, even his worst enemy.

The one and only time he'd accepted a contract on a child he hadn't been able to go through with it in the end, landing himself in boiling water as a result, almost literally. That hadn't been fun; Clint still hated North Korea with every fibre of his being and hadn't been back since. His experiences there had resulted in the scar that ran across his neck and chest but they weren't the worst reminder. He frequently had nightmares about his time spent in that torture chamb-...um prison interrogation room, often waking up in the dead of night in a cold sweat with a hammering heart and vivid memories of pain and screaming. He would then desperately try to convince himself it was just a nightmare and he was safe now. It didn't always work, it had been almost a year since then but an experience that traumatic stays with you forever.

It was after those events that he'd changed to survive in his new life, after Korea he'd made himself stop regretting anything he did to survive. When he'd killed the bastard who'd ordered the hit on the innocent girl in the first place, as he'd stared into the man's hate-filled eyes as he aimed the last arrow between them, Clint had felt something in him snap and darkness take its place. Without conscious though he'd released the arrow and as it hit its mark the bright hate-filled eyes faded into blank nothingness. It was at that precise moment the assassin Hawkeye reached full maturity and the persona of Clint Barton became a distant memory.

He'd walked away from the dead man practically hanging on the wall by the arrows and had never looked back, afraid if he did he would regret it. He had many regrets about his past actions but killing that man had never been one of them, no, he was afraid if he looked back he'd regret the killing of Clint Barton.

It was too late for regrets about taking this job now though.

He was in this and he had to see it through if he wanted to maintain his reputation. And he had to; if his reputation became tarnished he wouldn't live for long, one slip up and he was dead, and Clint wasn't ready to die. His stubbornness was perhaps the greatest blessing and the greatest curse in his life.

* * *

Clint only spent 5 days watching his target. He normally watched them for at least a week if he could (he hated timeframes and charged more for those, due to his fearsome reputation people normally obliged, you didn't hire Hawkeye unless you had plenty of money available to pay him) but in this case he couldn't watch any further. The sight of a happy loving family he was about to destroy almost broke him completely, and if he'd waited any longer he knew he wouldn't have been able to take that shot. He would have been compromised.

* * *

Clint was on a rooftop watching the man take the family dog for a run down to the shops and back just before dinner. He was on his fifth day of observations, and he suddenly couldn't handle this any longer. There were no kids around the man at the time, a rarity for such a close family, so Hawkeye took the opportunity and made the shot. As soon as the target was down Clint took off back to his apartment as if every law enforcement agent on the planet was on his tail.

He spent several minutes retching into the toilet in the small apartment before he was able to focus enough to wash his face and gather his thoughts together to work out a plan of action. He quickly shoved the few belongings he had with him into his bag and having made sure there was no physical evidence of him having been in the apartment he climbed out the window and headed towards the train station. He intended to catch the next train out of Vienna; he had to get away from here as fast as he could.

The growing darkness as night closed in and the guilt over what he'd just done culminated into making him lose his focus for just one second, but that was enough. He misjudged a step and slipped just as he was about to jump off the roof-access ladder onto the ground a block from the train station. He hit the concrete pavement head-first and saw stars for what seemed like an age before his head cleared enough for him to think, though he still felt very muzzy. He was vaguely aware of the throbbing in his right ankle but ignored it for the time being. As soon as his head allowed him to stand without making him sick he managed to make it the block to the station and brought a ticket on the next train heading out. The concussion he'd given himself continued to make the world very blurry; when the train arrived Clint slumped into a corner seat in an empty carriage and desperately tried not to black out. He wasn't sure he was entirely successful.

4 hours and 43 minutes later Clint disembarked in Prague. The station was almost deserted, only one or two other people got off the train with him. After he'd hobbled out of the station due to his aching ankle Clint found the streets were similarly empty. He started walking with no real destination in mind, his backpack on his back and his head down as he desperately trying not to let the guilt, concussion and pain from his ankle overwhelm him.

Clint wasn't aware of what he was doing, and wasn't paying any attention to where he was going. Several minutes, or it could have been hours as he lost track of time, later he somehow ended up at Charles Bridge. He climbed up onto the side of the structure before settling down in the shadow of one of the statues, staring broodingly out over the Vltava River to the city beyond without really seeing any of the brightly lit buildings. All he saw was blood. And it wasn't just the blood in his ledger.

You could say Clint's life story was written in blood. It was dripping red and gushing with it. The first memory he had of it was also the very first memory he possessed. He couldn't remember anything from before that, it was just blank.

He had been three and had fallen off his tricycle and grazed his left elbow and knee. He remembered watching in fascination as the blood run down the front of his leg, wet and sticky and red. His mom had cleaned and bandaged him up, and in a few days he had been as right as rain but for some reason that memory of the red had stayed with him.

The next time he saw red that he really remembered was when he witnessed both his parents being killed in a car accident when he was six. His dad had been drinking as per usual and had managed to run into the side of a truck when he was going 30 miles over the speed limit. Clint and his older brother Barney had been in the back of the car and though they were both hurt, none of their injuries had proved life threatening. Both their parents had been killed outright.

Clint remembered seeing his dad with his neck hanging limply at an impossible angle, blood dripping from a gash near his hairline, his eyes sightless. His mom's head had been bashed in, Clint could never bring himself to remember all the details, all he remembered was the sight of blood, the sharp metallic smell of it and how slippery it had made surfaces. There had been so much blood everywhere, all over him and Barney, all over the car, all over his parents. His memories of the rest of the accident were vague; all he really remembered was the bright red blood.

He'd seen plenty of blood during his time at the home for boys and all the orphanages that he and Barney had been sent to and from and bounced around in over the next five years. The older boys were always either fighting with each other or bullying the younger boys, and the adults often weren't much better. During this time Clint had lost count of the number of times he'd gotten injured, none of the adults had ever cared what the boys did; they were pretty much left to their own devices. Not even the doctors he'd met cared, which had instilled in him a deep distrust and hatred for medical personnel that continued to this day. Clint had always been small and skinny for his age, and so had been an easy target for the bullying, especially as Barney hadn't always been there to protect him. In hindsight after everything that had happened between them Clint couldn't help but wonder if his brother had ever really cared about him as anything more than a useful tool.

It was due to his time at the orphanages that he loved being up high, the boys had never been able to climb up to the same places that Clint could, his body behaved more like a monkey's than a human's at times. Being up high was the only way he was able to escape, to be safe. He liked to see and not be seen, and he'd always seen better from a distance anyway. Heights had been his safe haven and way to escape from a bad situation for as long as he could remember.

However, he couldn't escape from all the blood that was on his hands now; he was tainted too deeply in his soul. Clint looked out at the city, the innocent red lights turning to blood in his mind.

Once they'd left the last orphanage and joined the travelling carnival that was showing in the next town Clint had hoped life would change and he wouldn't always see so much of the red stuff. He'd hoped to find someone who loved him and wouldn't want to hurt him, someone who could fill the void in him that no matter what he'd done had remained a hollow ache for as long as he could remember. He just wanted a chance at a normal life.

Like all his dreams, it was not to be.

He'd seen plenty of blood during his six years in the circus; some his, some not his, some he had even caused. In fact his last clear memory from the circus was of lying in a pool of his own blood, watching his brother walk away from him without a second thought, leaving his baby brother dying all alone with his own knife sticking out of his chest and a broken heart after a job had gone south. The betrayal had hurt more than anything physical ever had, but Clint still remembered seeing the blood. Bright red blood staining his hands as he desperately tried to staunch the flow, blood he could see, blood they had washed off at the hospital later, unlike the blood that stained his hands now.

No matter how hard he tried, that blood couldn't be washed off. It was there all the time, and only he could see it. That didn't mean it wasn't real though. It was very real, and the fact he couldn't get rid of it just made it more real. It was a permanent reminder of all the red in his ledger and his life that he could do nothing about. All he could do was add to it.

His time in the army was also dominated by the blood he'd spilled, Clint had often not even known why he killed those he did, he simply followed orders but that fact still didn't make him innocent of the deaths he'd caused. And as for now, well, he was now an assassin who killed people for money.

He spilled blood because he got paid for it these days; his life was nothing but blood and darkness now. His life story was written in shades of red and black. There was nothing else in him, no hope, no feelings and no emotions. Assassins couldn't afford to have emotions, as he'd learnt the hard way more than once. His soul was bleeding with all the blood he'd spilled, all those innocent lives he'd taken for money, money he didn't even use, money he didn't even need. He was so weak, he was a failure, death was even too good an end for him. Clint was vaguely aware of the world turned from red to black, he tried to fight it but eventually the black won and he knew no more.

* * *

Clint woke up slowly with a throbbing headache and a bad taste in his mouth. He moaned and tried to roll over but something was stopping him. Confused, Clint opened his eyes and blearily blinked, disoriented. All he saw was red. Then as his vision cleared and his head stopped spinning so that he could actually focus he realised that it was hair, red hair, lots and lots of red hair. Then Clint saw the deep green eyes looking at him with concern shining in them. He tried to sit up but his head started pounding again and he dropped back onto the bed with a moan as his eyes closed of their own volition and he desperately tried not to be sick. He was given tablets of some kind and made to take them, washing them down with a bottle of water that was held to his lips. Just before he dropped back into unconsciousness he heard her whisper.

"Sleep now, I'm here and you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

* * *

The Black Widow sat on the edge of a chair and watched him sleep. Hawkeye was the last person she would have expected to see here. She also wouldn't have expected when she saw him he would be sitting in a daze right on the edge of a bridge, looking like he was about to fall off into the river below. He'd tried to fight when she'd pulled him back but he had been no match for the Black Widow in his delirious-like and almost unconscious state, unlike the last time they'd fought. She wasn't sure if he would have fallen, but she knew she couldn't take that chance. There were enough deaths on her conscience as it was.

She'd managed to subdue him just before he passed out. She'd then taken him and his bag back to the motel room she was staying in; she had her ways of doing things. He'd woken up not long ago in a dazed state due to the concussion, she had given him some pain killers and told him to go to sleep, that he was safe now. He'd proceeded to do just that, though whether it was voluntary or the result of the drugs she didn't know.

The Widow wondered just what had happened to make the infamous Hawkeye end up in this state. She also wondered why she was helping him. The only thing she knew for sure was that since their first meeting in Moscow two months ago she hadn't been able to shake him out of her head; there was something about him that she'd never seen in any of the other men she'd met. She hadn't been able to place what it was then and still couldn't now. She had half wondered if it was love but had almost instantly dismissed that notion. Love was for children she'd been told all her life and the Black Widow was no child. She'd never been a child.

Still, she kept her promise and watched over him while he slept.

* * *

Sunlight was filtering into the room and the faint sound of traffic could be heard coming through the open window when Clint woke. He was weak and he still had a headache, other than that he felt okay. Well, apart from needing a shower and something to eat. Clint tried to remember how he'd gotten here but there was nothing. The last thing he remembered was packing his stuff up in Vienna.

Vienna! Clint sat bolt upright as the memory came back to him, and he felt himself start to panic. He didn't know what would have happened next if she hadn't taken hold of his hand and spoken softly.

"It's okay; I'm here, breath, just breath. You're safe and everything's going to be okay. Just breathe."

It was the red-haired girl from that job in Moscow two months ago. She was looking at him, concern clearly written in her green eyes. Clint took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then took another. After about 5 minutes or so he felt calm enough to look at her properly, and ask her the question that had been bugging him.

"What the hell happened?"

She smiled sadly at him.

"I'm not sure," she replied, "what do you remember?"

"Not much. Why am I here and more to the point why are you here? Where is here by anyway? And just who are you?"

"My name is Natalia Romanova. As to where you are, you are in a motel in Prague, I brought you here. I don't know why you're in this city. And would you mind giving me your name? It's only fair seeing I gave you mine. Unless you want me to just call you Hawkeye."

Clint hesitated for a second before deciding her knowing just his first name didn't hurt. He hadn't had anyone call him Clint for a long time, probably no one had since his brother deserted him. It might be nice for at least one person to know him by a name other than Hawkeye.

"Clint. Natalia hey? That's unusual, mind if I call you Nat? It's much easier to remember. How long was I out?"

"You were unconscious for almost twenty-two hours. It would seem you somehow managed to sustain a concussion, along with a slightly sprained ankle. The concussion seems to be gone now but the ankle will take another day or two to heal properly, providing you give it plenty of rest."

Clint digested this information in silence before asking another question.

"What time is it?"

"It's almost 8 pm. It is also a Tuesday."

He had been out for a while as last he remembered it had been Sunday.

"Would it be possible to get something to eat Nat? I don't remember when the last time I had a proper meal was."

Natalia nodded and gracefully stood up from where she was sitting on the bed before going over to the phone which was sitting on the top of the cupboard in the corner. She dialled a number and after speaking to someone in Czech for a few minutes hung up. She came back and sat back down on her chair before talking to him in English.

"I've just ordered some pizza to be delivered. They told me it would be about half-an-hour so there's time for you to have a shower if you want it. Bathroom is through there." She pointed at a small door set into the wall on the other side of the sparsely furnished room. "And there's plenty of hot water despite appearances. Soap and shampoo are on the shelf. No offence meant but I'd say you could do with a good shower."

Clint grinned cheekily.

"So I'm not the only one who thinks that then?"

She glared at him, lips twitching slightly, and pointed towards the bathroom. Clint signed and made a big show of slowly getting out of bed. Mindful of his bandaged and very sore ankle Clint gathering some clean clothes out of his bag which was lying on the floor near the foot of the bed before limping slowly towards the door she'd indicated, ignoring the eye roll he received for his trouble. Natalia was right; he really did need a shower.

35 minutes later he exited the bathroom, feeling refreshed and more alert and comfortable in cleaner clothes, to see Natalia putting three pizza boxes down on the bare and very battered wooden table. An enticing smell was wafting around the room making his mouth water. He pulled the chair that was next to the bed up to the table and sat down while Natalia sat in the chair on the other side of the table. Neither of them said a word as they ate, but it was a comfortable silence.

That night Clint tried to insist that Natalia take the bed, he argued that he could sleep on the couch but given he was still recovering Nat wouldn't hear of it and in the end he'd been too tired to fight so had given in and let her slept on the couch that was in the apartment. Clint, recovering from the concussion and having taken pain medication on Nat's insistence, slept soundly all night, not waking until the sun was high in the sky the next day. When he did Natalia Romanova was gone. The only physical evidence to suggest the whole encounter hadn't been a dream was a note pinned to the couch which said simply,

_Clint, take care till we meet again. I trust we will. Nat._

* * *

Phil sat looking at the images that flashed across his computer screen. He and Mandy had scanned the arrows and identified several sets of fingerprints on them, but only one set was common to them all. Most of these prints were located up near the fletching; Phil was willing to bet they belonged to the mystery assassin. He was currently running a computer check of every fingerprint record in existence, especially the ex-military ones which had been May's suggestion given the assassins skills, to see if he could find any that matched those prints, it was taking a long time but Phil was a patient man. It was a long shot, but Phil was willing to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

Fury was sitting in his office busy dealing with all the paperwork that was generated from running a covert secret organisation when the door was thrown open without a knock and someone came prancing into his office unannounced.

Fury looked up; he'd just opened his mouth to say something highly uncomplimentary and probably inform whoever it was that they no longer had a job when a military personnel file landed in front of him. Fury blinked and looked up at Phil who was grinning like the cat who'd swallowed the cream, and then eaten the canary for good measure. His mouth still open Fury asked a question instead of what he'd originally been going to say.

"What's this?"

"Open it and see, it's the real identity of this assassin Hawkeye."

Somewhat intrigued Fury opened the file, only to see 'deceased' stamped in red ink across the front of the ID photograph. He looked up at Phil in confusion, Phil just grinned back.

"Just read it."

"Phil, it says he's dead."

"Just because someone is believed to be dead doesn't mean they are. You of all people know how true that is sir. Just read."

So Fury gave in and read the file, which turned out to belong to one ex-army sniper called Clinton Francis Barton. He'd joined the military at 18, had excelled in his training and proved to be such an outstanding marksman that he'd become a sniper. He'd apparently never missed a shot, not once. However he'd had a problem with authority, a big problem judged from all the comments from his superiors that were in the file, and he wasn't much of a team player.

Fury took his time and read all the comments that had found their way into the file. He'd never seen such a differentiating of opinion, and Fury had seen a lot in his time. Some of the comments made about this sniper seem too good to be true, others painted him as reckless and arrogant, a full on pain in the ass. The truth was probably somewhere between the two but Fury read everything regardless.

Fury read right through before coming back to look at the service photo again. The kid looked so young. Barton had sandy coloured hair cut fairly short and eyes that weren't blue or green or grey, they were somewhere between these three colours and had specks of gold in them, in fact they were a colour that Fury had never seen before. He was staring at the camera with a rebellious look in his eyes, eyes that were very sharp and piercing and looked much older than eighteen. After contemplating the information in the file for a few moments Fury looked up at Phil.

"How did he die? All it says in this file is that there was an 'unfortunate incident'. That doesn't answer the question of how he could be both a dead soldier and an alive assassin if he is Hawkeye. So what's the story behind him been dead but apparently alive at the same time?"

Phil leaned forward in his chair, passing another file over to Fury. When opened this one turned out to be an incident report on a military jail over in Afghanistan which had been blown up almost 14 months ago. There had been something wrong with the wiring, the report said, and it had somehow managed to catch on fire before anyone realised what was happening. There had only been one prisoner in it at the time, no names were mentioned but he was officially reported as deceased based on the available evidence. The explosion had been so big that the guards standing outside had been severely injured, though they received the correct medical care and lived. After reading all that Fury looked at Phil.

"Let me guess, the person in the jail was this sniper Barton?"

"Spot on sir, yes, it was him. No body was ever recovered from the wreckage, however due to the heat the explosion generated it was thought that no one would have been able to survive. But then I found out the fingerprints on the arrows that belong to Hawkeye match the ones on Barton's file perfectly. No doubt they belong to the same person."

"So you think that he somehow survived that explosion then became a free-lance assassin?"

"I'm sure of it sir. These prints are the proof that Clinton Barton didn't die; he just changed identities and jobs. And at least now we have a picture of him, even if it is over two years old. Using an aging program that the FBI has developed and all the security cameras located around the world it's only a matter of time until we get a hit on his location now that we know who we are looking for. Once we have that what are your orders on the matter sir?"

"Enough with the sir business Phil. I don't think that we have a choice but to eliminate him. He's dangerous and deadly, and has a body count in the triple digits."

Fury then read something else that was written below the photograph that proceeded to visibly stun him.

"Good grief, if this information is true then this kid's barely out of his teens. Not even twenty-one years old and already one of the most feared and deadly contract assassins in the world. He has to be retired soon Phil, if someone can be that good when they're barely twenty they'll be unstoppable in another 5 or 10 years, providing he survives that long. We'll be doing everyone a favour by stopping this now before it goes any further."

Phil just nodded; he'd expected this would happen. He would hand pick some other agents to go with him and they'd eliminate Hawkeye for good, eliminating threats was what they did after all. He had more to tell Fury first however, Phil's research hadn't stopped there, oh no, he was way too curious for that. Some would call it nosy but it had always stood him in good stead so far.

"That's not all I found out about him director. That's barely half the story."

Nick looked up from the report with a frown as Phil handed him another _two_ files. He seemed to be producing them out of thin air, how many more were there? Deciding to humour Phil for now Nick opened the first file which contained reports from the social services about possible child abuse, school reports, an accident report, old faded records pertaining to who-knows-what-Fury-didn't and not much else. Fury opened the second one and blinked at old, faded circus posters, a few photocopied newspaper articles in black-and-white and some police reports. He glared at Coulson who was grinned that idiotic grin of his again. He was too damn pleased with himself over all this.

"Explain soldier."

"It seems that Clinton Francis Barton was born in Waverley, Iowa. Even though I couldn't find his birth certificate it makes sense that is where he was born as he definitely spent his early life there and appears briefly on the school register. Both his parents were killed in a car accident resulting from his father's drunk driving when he was about six or seven, leaving him and his older brother Charles as orphans. The social services found evidence of possible child abuse having occurred in the Barton home before that but nothing was ever proven as the boys wouldn't talk to anyone about their parents and they were dead anyway. Having no other living relatives they were put into the foster system and spent the next five years bouncing around in it, never being adopted. At the end of those five years the Barton brother's ran away from the home they were in."

In spite of himself Fury leaned forward.

"And...?"

Phil smirked at Fury's interest.

"And Clinton doesn't appear on the radar again until he joins the army almost seven years later, his older brother completely disappears. From what I found out it is a possibility that they joined a travelling circus, Carson's Carnival of Travelling Wonders. I haven't been able to find much on them, they were an incredibly secretive group and not at all modest, even for a circus. They were suspected by the authorities of being involved in crimes ranging from petty theft and assault to assassinations, but nothing was ever proven. They never stayed in one place for more than a week or two and were too good at covering their tracks for any charges to stick for long. They played their innocent act very well."

"Sometime during their time spent there the younger Barton apparently learned archery; if these newspaper articles are to be trusted he even had his own act under the name 'The Amazing Hawkeye' the man who never misses. The last bit is what tipped me off to his true identity as Hawkeye is ironically the name he uses now..."

"As a contract assassin and he still never misses what he aims at." Fury finished, and frowned. "Just how the heck does all this relate to the current case Agent?"

"To be honest it doesn't, but once I started getting hits I couldn't stop. After being with the circus world for about five years or so Hawkeye just vanishes from the performance scene, he seemingly evaporates into thin air and isn't heard from again. The younger Barton joined the military not long after, what happened to the older one I don't know, his name doesn't appear in any records. Barton was with them for almost eighteen months and became a sniper, a remarkably good one, just look at his shooting scores. He served in Afghanistan for a while before been presumed dead after the explosion. It seems he's gone into the wind since then and somewhere along the lines became a gun for hire. He certainly seems to be a merciless killing machine for hire now."

Fury frowned.

"I know that he's a mercenary. Where did you find out all this?"

"It wasn't easy, but once I had a few dates and place names I found out more. I worked backwards from what we do know for sure and put all the pieces together in a way that makes sense. Most of this isn't set in stone it's just what makes the most sense given the evidence I've found. The early stuff was from government records in Iowa though I couldn't find a birth certificate for the younger Barton, only the older one, which is rather odd but I suppose that he could have slipped through the cracks or it could be in some other place..."

Fury gave Phil a bland look as he cut the other agent's ramblings short.

"This is fascinating, but I seem to remember asking for this assassin's name, not his entire life history and then some."

"I couldn't stop once I started sir, and besides it's a good idea to know all you can on your opponent, event their early life. We probably should do that more often as it could make finding them easier."

Fury kept his expression blank, but Phil did have a good point. He'd think more on that later; perhaps do some digging of his own. Right now he had to get an excited Phil Coulson back on track and out of his office so he could work in peace again.

"Whatever, just make sure that you let me know when you locate this assassin Phil. As soon as you do you have clearance to eliminate him, just let me know first. You are dismissed Agent, and make sure you take all these files back with you. I don't need your paperwork cluttering up my desk and getting in the way of more important work."

* * *

_SHIELD's New York Headquarters: almost two months later_

"Phil, are you absolutely sure about this?"

The two of them were in Fury's office; Nick currently had his gaze fixed on his best agent, who was sitting across the table from him visibly vibrating with excitement.

"Yes Nick, I am. We've taped into live security feeds from airports all over the world and the photo recognition we set up to scan faces saw Barton boarding a direct flight to Tokyo less than an hour ago. If we leave now we can be in Tokyo in less than 12 hours time. We can find him from there."

"You sure it was him?"

"The FBI's aging program we used on his military service photo gave us a fair idea of what he is likely to look like now, and the feeds from the airport reported a 93% facial match. It's him."

"That is high." Fury was actually impressed as he looked first at the still taken from the security feed, and then at the picture that had digitally aged Barton. They were certainly very similar, even though the still was very grainy and in black and white it was clearly the same person. "Okay, you have my permission soldier, go and neutralise this threat. Have you decided who you are taking with you?"

"Yes, Harrison and Boyd. I know that's not a lot of people for what could be a difficult job but from what I know about Barton I think it's best this way. I'm hoping we'll have the element of surprise on our side as I don't fancy facing him head on with the crazy skills he has. If he really is the assassin Hawkeye this could be quite a challenge."

"Just try not to die Phil; I don't think that I'll be able to handle the amount of paperwork that would generate."

"I'll do my best to come back alive and in one piece sir. Thank you for your concern."

"How often do I have to tell you to quite with the sir Coulson? Will it ever penetrate through your thick head?"

"I don't think so s-"

"Don't you dare call me sir again, or I just might decide to make you stay. I know how much you want to do this so you'd better get going before I change my mind and assign this kill order to someone else."

Phil nodded and left the room as Fury went back to his paperwork. He was confident that Phil would soon bring this assassin down; the man was the best agent he'd ever met, if anyone could eliminate Hawkeye it was Phil Coulson. Just a couple more days and then an 8 month old file could be laid to rest in the pile of successful closures.

* * *

**End of chapter 6.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil has finally found Hawkeye! But wait, he wants to kill him? What could possibly be going to happen next? Tune in tomorrow for our next chapter to find out;
> 
> Chapter 7: Tokyo
> 
> Who feels like giving Clint a hug due to his horrible past? Also, I would love to know what you think of this story!


	7. Tokyo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Spoilers for the chapter are in the notes at the end so I would recommend reading those last.
> 
> I would love to know what people are thinking, especially after you've read this chapter.
> 
> The sequel for this story is approaching the publication stage which is really exciting! I will give more details right at the end of the story after chapter 10.
> 
> As usual thanks goes to my beta's, Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot.
> 
> And let the action begin! It's the final countdown to the finale now guys so enjoy!

* * *

 But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope. _George Eliot_

* * *

**Chapter 7: Tokyo**

_Tokyo, Japan: June 1998_

Clint sat on the single mattress in his motel room in Tokyo. If it actually qualified as a room that is as it was closer to the size of a closet. It contained a single mattress on the floor and one straight backed wooden chair, nothing else. The bathroom was down the hall, and shared with the twenty or so other people living or staying on this floor, all of whom knew how to mind their own business. The room had a flimsy door which had a lock on the inside and a small window. Clint had made sure when he booked in that his room would have a window, it was small but Clint knew if he had to he could climb through it, and it looked down on the roof next door so he was happy. All in all it wasn't much, but he'd survived with less and lived in much worse conditions and it would do for the time being. Besides, he wasn't planning to be here more than a week or two at most.

This was the third time Clint had been to Tokyo. As a result he spoke Japanese fluently and knew the best places to stay that kept you under the radar. This was vital knowledge as Rule One in his personal assassin's creed was "don't draw unwanted attention to oneself".

The same man had hired him the other two times as well. The first time around Clint had made a seemingly impossible shot from two blocks away in a rainstorm using his bow and arrows. That was early on in his career, he hadn't even been out of the army for two months. The second time had been much easier; he'd simply killed the target while he was at a party thrown by the boss of his company. For that job he'd used his sniper rifle because the client requested it, which didn't make much sense. Why hire an assassin who is a master archer and not use his skills? He'd paid Clint well however, so he had complied with the man's odd demands.

This time he was told he could use his bow. Good, Clint much preferred it to his rifle even though the rifle was a real beauty, top of the line. Clint felt that using guns was cheating; anyone could aim at a target and pull the trigger. It was the bow that took real skill to shoot. Even though Clint's main base of operation was Paris the rifle was stored safely away in a storage locker in Madrid along with a few other things he wanted kept safe. He didn't carry the rifle around with him; he always had his bow and numerous knives on hand, though he didn't intend to get within a 20 metre radius of his target at most.

The target this time around was in the same business as the other two people Clint had retired. As far as he could tell his client didn't like these men, for what reason Clint didn't know. He just knew the hatred his client had for them ran so deep he was willing to pay someone a lot of money to kill them. Clint privately thought that was slightly over-reacting but he was being paid well so he didn't question the man's motives.

Clint didn't really care why the man wanted these people dead, it wasn't relevant to the job but it was a good idea to have some knowledge of the person who hired you regardless. From what Clint knew he was a shady character and, despite occupying a high spot in a successful company, some of his actions when he wasn't at work were slightly unorthodox to put it mildly. He was involved with more than a few shady types. He was good at keeping a lid on things, and his outward appearance couldn't have been more miss-leading as he never did the dirty work himself, he hired people like Clint to do it for him. Clint wasn't worried about that, all he had to do was take one shot then go home. No one would even know he was here until he'd already left, just the way he liked things to be.

* * *

About the same time as Clint was thinking these thoughts Coulson was on a SHIELD plane bound for Tokyo, briefing the two men he'd hand-picked to accompany him on this mission, both were listening intently. When Coulson had finished Grant Harrison, a young man with dark hair who had previously worked for the FBI in special investigations, was shocked.

"Whoa, hang on Coulson, you saying this kid who's barely old enough to vote has managed to hide from SHIELD for 16 months and was working as a hit man for about 9 months before he even appeared on our radar? That's disturbing; more to the point how is that even possible?"

Thomas Boyd, a former soldier with fair hair who Coulson had known for a long time and was very good with technology shook his head in disagreement.

"What's disturbing is the fact that he had over 100 confirmed kills to his name and is supposed to be dead himself. He causes an awful lot of chaos for a dead man."

Harrison nodded thoughtfully at that before he addressed Phil.

"So Coulson, howdah ya suggest we do this?"

Boyd also looked to him waited for his reply. It went without saying that Coulson was in charge of this mission. Coulson often commanded missions involving groups of agents from the ground while acting as team leader; for more complex or covert missions handlers would keep tabs on happenings from afar and move in to help if it became necessary. This had never stood quite right with Phil. People often complained that he was like a mother hen regarding those under his command on missions, always right there with his charges ready to protect then no matter what. But Phil couldn't help himself, the chances of something going wrong and him not been able to do anything about it until it was too late because he was too far away were far too great for his peace of mind.

It had happened once and the guilt from that incident had almost killed him, that agent was the sole reason Phil preferred to be on the ground with his team at all times if it was possible. Due to this he didn't know if he would ever be able to handle a covert operative again.

Phil answered Harrison's question.

"I think our best weapon against this assassin will be the element of surprise. We know he's good and I want all of us to get through this operation alive and in one piece. The plane he boarded is confirmed to have landed in Tokyo without any stops but he hasn't been seen on a camera since he left the airport. We have a line on every security and surveillance camera in the city and I'm hopeful that it's only a matter of time before we get some hit on his location; SHIELD has even established a line from ATM and traffic cams directly back to us. And once we find him, well I'm not quite sure how we take him out. If anyone has any ideas I'm listening."

Harrison and Boyd both looked thoughtful. Silence reined in the plane for about 5 minutes while everyone sat there deep in thought about how to take down the assassin. Predictably it was Harrison who spoke up first, having received training for similar sort of stuff while still with the FBI, training that he now put to good use in this scenario.

"What if we find out who hired him? On second thoughts that is probably impossible. Or, I know, Coulson; do you have any idea of who his target could be? Has anyone else been killed in Tokyo with arrows that you know of? Just a thought, one thing they taught us in the FBI training program was to look for patterns to our targets movements."

Coulson looked straight at Harrison with an intense expression.

"Actually now that you mentioned it, yes, we have had one confirmed kill using an arrow in Tokyo. That was about 14 months ago, so it would have been very early in his career if it was Hawkeye. That's the only one we know about though that doesn't mean there wasn't more. We suspect this assassin of carrying out way more hits than the ones that have actually been attributed to him."

Almost before Coulson finished speaking Boyd chimed in with "do you have the information on that hit with you?"

Coulson looked at Boyd with a puzzled expression.

"Yes, but there's not much info on it."

"It's got a name right?"

Coulson nodded and rummaged through his briefcase before finally extracting a file. He opened it and ran his finger down a list of names printed there before coming to rest on one.

"Daiki Sasaki was the name; he was an employee of a company called Comtech. They basically work with computers and technology, designing, building, marketing all the usual sort of stuff. The kind of thing you love Boyd. It's a successful business but Sasaki wasn't a high up employer by any means, he simply worked in the building department as a general labourer. It would appear that he wasn't targeted because of the company, but who knows. That's all the information we've got on him."

Harrison's frown had deepened as he listened and once Coulson was finished he spoke again.

"Do you know where he was when he was killed?"

"Yes, we actually do. He was killed by an arrow through his heart as he got out of the taxi that dropped him off out the front of a restaurant. He was going to have dinner with some of his co-workers but never made it inside. It was raining cats and dogs at the time and the wind was ferocious apparently, yet the arrow still found its mark as it killed him regardless of the weather conditions. Like I said before, Hawkeye's good. He's the best hit man we've seen for some time."

They discussed ideas and plans on how to find and take down Hawkeye for the best part of the next three hours and eventually they came up with one that might work, providing they could find Barton. It left far too many ifs for Coulson's taste, but it was the best they could come up with and as they were all experienced agents he pushed his concerns to the back of his mind to concentrate on planning all the details. Phil didn't want to underestimate this assassin by assuming anything, a mistake which could prove to be disastrous for them. That finally settled, the men decided to try and get some sleep so they'd be ready to start searching as soon as they arrived in Tokyo.

* * *

After a brief rest Clint headed out into the city to find his mark. He was in surveillance mode so left his bow and quiver behind. They weren't the best thing to carry around when you wanted to be discrete, well the bow could be made discrete by folding it in on itself but the quiver was a dead giveaway every time. He had his knives hidden around his body as usual but Clint hoped nothing would force him to use them. He just never felt safe unarmed anymore.

He headed towards the business part of the city where the company his target worked for was located. The man to be eliminated this time was higher up in the company than the last two; he was a supervisor of the marketing department. Once he reached the right building Clint hid the best way he could in a busy, crowded city, out in the open.

He sat down in the cafe located just down the street from the Comtech building, making sure he chose a seat which gave him a good view of the main front door, he kept his dark glasses on so it wouldn't be obvious he was watching the building. He knew his mark's facial features by heart, he'd memorised the photograph he'd been given down to the last detail. Clint ordered a coffee, speaking flawless Japanese to a giggling waitress who tried her best to hit on him before skipping off to get his order, and then opened a newspaper he'd purchased and pretended to read it. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on the front door of the office building waiting for his mark to appear so he could shadow him.

* * *

Phil and his small team reached SHIELD's safe house, located in a warehouse section of Tokyo, in the early evening. It wasn't a very big place, just a single room with a small bathroom leading off it; two cots, a couple of chairs and a table stood in the main room. That wasn't a problem though, when they got an opportunity to sleep one of them would keep watch at all times so three cots weren't really needed. They'd all managed to get some rest on the plane so they weren't as tired as one would expect at that time of night. In fact with the mission in front of them they were raring to go.

"So, the first thing on our list was to find him if I remember correctly and I do have a rather good memory." Harrison grinned from the chair he had claimed, it looked like the most comfortable one in the place. SHIELD safe houses were seriously in need of an upgrade, Fury was working on it but the paperwork was taking forever. "How's the computer going with that boss?"

This was directed at Coulson, who shook his head from where he and Boyd were busy setting up their equipment.

"Nothing yet, so once we have this mountain of cables sorted out I suggest we do things the old fashioned way and do some hands on recon. My suggestion is we split up and two of us wander around town for a bit. One stays here and keeps in touch with the others over the comms as well as keeping an eye on what the computer picks up seeing as the program is still running. Boyd, I think you'll be the best one for that. I don't know what we're likely to find Harrison, but keep an eye open. We just might get lucky."

"Okay Coulson." Boyd agreed readily, seeing the sense in the plan. Unlike Coulson and Harrison he wasn't really trained in stealth. He was more a point-him-at-something-to-shoot kind of guy, and found these sorts of spy games very tedious at times. He had the brains for it but not the patience. That was something that he'd been told numerous times by many different people and though Boyd kind of disagreed with that he didn't bother to correct them. He simply found spying with computers to be much more exciting and rewarding than doing it on foot. With a computer he had all the patience in the world.

They each took a different part of the city, Coulson took the business district, which even at this time of night wasn't deserted, and in a dark suit he easily blended in with the crowd. Harrison made good use of his FBI training to spy on all the restaurants and eating places in the town without being too obvious. They both had a fair idea what Barton looked like, but despite watching for four hours and covered the whole CBD area and several surrounding streets they came up with nothing. Eventually they returned to their temporary base to be greeted by Boyd with the depressing news that the camera search was still a blank. They took turns to sleep for what remained of the night, one of them watching the computer at all times.

* * *

_Beep, beep, beep._

The loud insistent beeping made Coulson wake up startled, though if that hadn't woken him up the squeal of delight from Boyd probably would have. Phil groggily sat up and tried to think, it only took his sleep-addled brain a few seconds to remember everything and a suddenly very wide-awake Phil half-hesitantly asked, almost not daring to hope.

"Has it...?"

Boyd nodded, a huge smile on his face as he turned to face Coulson throwing his hands out with a dramatic flourish gesture.

"Yep, this baby here has picked up an almost perfect facial match for our Hawkeye. He's currently in a drugstore not that far from here. I hacked into the security footage of the store and secured a line back to us on the off chance he would show up, I did it with several small stores located around the place. Have a look at the footage."

Harrison, who was also awake by this time, joined the other two in front of the laptop. It had been almost four days since they'd arrived in Tokyo and so far they had found no trace of the assassin they'd been sent to eliminate. Now all eyes were on the screen.

They watched the slight figure standing in the drugstore. He had his head down and the hood on his jacket pulled right up over his face so it was now hidden in shadows. He stood at the counter with a few groceries; his back was facing towards the camera as he talked to the man behind the counter. The man was facing the camera and they could see he was talking to the hooded figure who was listening and nodding. Suddenly three men wearing black masks burst through the door. The younger man spun around suddenly and the camera caught a full-on shot of the man's face for the second time as his hood fell off. Even if the facial recognition hadn't picked up on it there was no doubt that the hooded figure was indeed Clinton Barton, aka Hawkeye.

The men watching the footage didn't bother to communicate in words. Coulson and Harrison grabbed their comms and headed out the door strapping on their weapons as they went, leaving Boyd to feed them information. Deciding it would be quicker to walk than use the car they'd rented as the store was located like a block away, the two of them jogged towards the store in question. Boyd's voice came over the comm.

"He's still in there. Wow; he's giving those robbers a beating! I think one is already dead. I can't believe what I'm seeing, this is incredible. They're twice the size of him! You'd better hurry guys, looks like he's close to finishing up in there, this assassin doesn't mess around when there's a job to be done."

Boyd kept them updated as they hurried to the store. When they arrived Hawkeye was apparently still inside, according to Boyd he'd been injured but had still succeeded in taking the three guys down singlehandedly. The two agents hid in a garden just up the road and watched.

Moments later a small figure came out of the shop. He had his hood pulled up again hiding his face, his right sleeve was torn, and he had blood splattered over him that was visible to the watchers in the garden. He glanced quickly up and down the street, missing the SHIELD agents hiding in the garden on the other side of the road just up from where he was. After a moment he shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking the other way, still glancing furtively around him. Coulson confirmed to Boyd they had him in sight before slipping out and following him at a safe distance, Harrison by his side. Less suspicious if two men were walking down the street together in plain view not trying to hide. Coulson didn't intend to engage Barton right away; he wanted to observe him first, though correct protocol would be to take him out right then Coulson didn't always adhere to protocol. After having spent so long looking for the assassin and trying to figure out how he'd carried out some of the hits that were attributed to him Coulson wanted to do recon first. He tried to keep his excitement and anticipation in check and concentrate on the matter at hand as he silently followed his prey.

* * *

Clint had just finished buying his groceries and was sharing a joke with the owner of the place (who he knew fairly well having bought most of his groceries here every time he came to Tokyo) when those three men had come bursting through the door, demanding to be handed all the money in the place. The look on the owners face made Clint's blood boil; he was an innocent, hard working and honest man being bullied by thugs, so Clint didn't think twice about what he did next. He flung himself at the first man, punching him in the jaw, ducked a clumsy blow and then did a back flip so he landed out of range before the other man could retaliate. Clint saw the other two pull out knives and mentally sighed, why couldn't things ever be easy.

A little less than five minutes later three men lay on the floor, two unconscious and one dead, his neck having been broken, Clint wasn't one of them. He sheathed his own knife in his boot, ignoring the ache in his right bicep from where one of their knives had cut him, told the owner who was watching him open mouthed to call the police before the men returned to consciousness, and then shoved his groceries in his pockets. Pulling up his hood he hurried towards the door, slowing down just enough so as not to appear suspicious when he stepped out onto the street. He glanced quickly up and down the road as he exited but saw no one.

Shoving his bloodied and bruised hands in his pockets (that man's face had been _hard_ damn it) Clint started walking casually down the road, keeping his eyes open for anything suspicious. The back of his head hurt from connecting with the hilt of one of their knives and more than a few punches, as a result Clint was sure he had a slight concussion, so when he saw a run-down taxi stopped by the sidewalk while the shady looking driver had a smoke he didn't hesitate to hail it and hop in, a generous handful of cash passed to the driver was all it took to stop any questions. After giving his address Clint sunk down in the back so he wouldn't be visible to anyone looking in and willed the taxi to go faster. He just wanted to get home and clean himself up and wait for the world to stop spinning. Man, he hated concussions and he seemed to attract them like a magnet wherever he went.

* * *

The SHIELD Agent's watched Barton get out of the taxi before heading into a dilapidated boarding house that looked like it would fall down if a big enough gust of wind came along. Harrison looked across at Coulson from the driver's seat of the car they had 'borrowed' and asked the obvious question.

"What now boss? We know where he is staying."

Coulson taped his comm.

"Boyd, we need you here immediately. Target entered a boarding house and is confirmed injured. Here is the address."

Coulson then looked at Harrison.

"We watch until Boyd gets here and make sure Hawkeye doesn't leave. Then one watches the front door and the windows on one side, another watches the windows on the other side, and the last one enters, finds his room and takes him out. I've been in these sorts of places before and as they share a wall with the house behind them I know there won't be any back windows to watch which makes our job a bit easier."

"If Hawkeye manages to get away from the one inside then either one outside takes the shot. The windows in that place are tiny but given his track record of doing the impossible we'll still watch them all. When Boyd arrives we'll decide who does what."

They watched and waited for almost 15 minutes until Boyd arrived with their own car. The other two abandoned their 'borrowed' car (Coulson made a mental note to call an anonymous tip into the local police later) and climbed into the back seat of their car so the three of them could discuss their plan. Coulson, it was decided, would enter and eliminate; Boyd would watch the front door from behind the car with his rifle ready, and Harrison would position himself on the roof of the abandoned store building across from the house where he could see all the windows and the side entrance. That way even if Hawkeye got away from Coulson inside he would still be exposed to either of the other two and they could take the shot.

Another advantage to these positions was that if he killed Coulson and tried to get away he would still expose himself. Both Boyd and Harrison were happy not to be inside but cautioned Coulson to be careful not to get shot or in any way killed. Coulson only nodded grimly and replied.

"I'll do my best not to, you both be careful as well. This isn't an amateur we're hunting and SHIELD's Kevlar vests might stop a bullet and be pretty well knife proof but I'm not sure how they would fair against an arrow at close range and I'd rather not find out any time soon. Make sure you keep the comms open so we can all hear each other at all times."

The other two nodded in return and each man went to his assigned post.

* * *

Clint had just gotten back from the bathroom after cleaning and bandaging his arm and was holding an ice pack to the back of his neck to try to ease his throbbing headache (he hated painkillers, they had the tendency to interfere with his thinking process) when he heard one of the stairs creak and then suddenly go silent in a way that suggested whoever was coming up was trying to be very quiet. He instantly froze and listened, thankful for his finely tuned hearing aids, though he still missed his own hearing. He knew how most of the people who were staying on this floor walked by now but these footsteps were new, he'd never heard them before which wasn't a good sign. Clint didn't like how stealthy the steps were, plus they were heading towards his door. In a place like this people don't try and walk quietly unless they have a really good reason for doing so.

Clint grabbed his things, strapped on his quiver and picked up his strung bow silently in the space of about seven seconds. The steady footsteps stopped just outside his door, but Clint didn't wait any longer. Ignoring his still aching head and his injured arm he hurried to the back window, the only one this building had, it was small but Clint knew he could fit through it. It was open just as he'd purposefully left it and Clint began climbing through, careful not to make any loud noises.

He was almost through when the door to his room was kicked in and the sound of a gun been cocked could clearly be heard. Clint registered that the intruder was wearing a dark suit and met his eyes for a brief moment before he was through the window and rolling down the roof. He heard the shout of startled surprise behind him before he got up and started running over the tin.

* * *

Coulson found the floor Barton's room was on and walked quietly down the hall. He wanted to surprise the assassin, and was hoping that after the run-in at the store he wouldn't be at the top of his game due to his injuries. Coulson was basing that assumption on the fact the Hawk hadn't seen him and Harrison hiding in the garden when he exited the store; given some of the hits that had been attributed to him Phil had been worried he would see them, he hadn't which gave Phil an angle to play. This place was cramped and musty; a single bathroom stood at the end of the hall and the door to it was swinging open showing Phil it was empty. Phil slowly approached the door to the assassin's room (he had his ways of finding out information) making as little noise as possible and found it was closed. He paused and listened for a moment but heard nothing from inside. Making a quick decision Coulson suddenly kicked in the door, the force sent the door flying off its hinges to crash into the room and then he cocked his gun, ready to take out anyone in the room, confidant that he had the element of surprise on his side.

Instead he saw a small figure exiting through a window that looked onto the building behind. The figure looked back at him and they locked eyes for a moment as time seemed to stand still, then Barton was through the window and sliding down the roof. Like that the spell was broken and Coulson cursed loudly and activated his comm.

"Coulson to all agents, target escaped through a window not guarded. I repeat, target escaped and is armed. Target is currently heading west using the rooftops. Follow him. Secrecy is gone so use any means necessary to take him out."

Coulson heard two 'copy's' before starting down the stairs to the ground floor. He had just started running in the direction Hawkeye had gone when Harrison reported he had lost him two blocks away. Boyd radioed in seconds afterwards with the same news. Coulson took a shortcut down an alleyway, ending up in the street a block ahead of the one Harrison was in. Seeing a water tank at the end which was higher than most of the roofs around here and had an access ladder on the outside Coulson had an idea and quickly climbed it, looking back over the roofs the way he'd come. It took him a few moments to spot Hawkeye, and grabbing his rifle (which he'd taken out of the car) from his back he positioned it and was about to take the shot, when he paused and looked again.

Hawkeye was jumping, running, climbing, sliding, dodging, somersaulting, and _cart wheeling_ over the rooftops, Coulson had never seen anything like it. It was like parkour, but unlike any parkour Coulson had ever seen. Never once losing his balance or coming out of rhythm despite the poor light and his injuries, the small black clad figure with the bow and quiver stuck to his chosen path and moved faster than the agents on the street could. No wonder they'd lost him. He was jumping between roofs like he had wings and using everything available to his advantage, totally manipulating the environment to do whatever he wanted. The result was nothing short of breathtaking.

Coulson was almost two blocks away, and even from that distance he could see the grace in the archer's movements without needing to look through the scope of his rifle. He moved as gracefully and lithely as a cat, always landing on his feet and going at a speed that Coulson had thought would be beyond the human capability in that environment. Once again, he wondered if the assassin was fully human.

Phil had the shot lined up in a couple of seconds but as he pulled the trigger the black clad figure faulted for a second and stumbled on the roof, meaning the shot missed its mark completely and pinged onto the roof near the assassin's legs. Phil cursed as he saw Barton start and look at the bullet for a split second before his eyes swivelled around and came to rest unerringly on Coulson; in spite of the distance between them Phil could feel the intensity of the gaze.

Too late he lined up the rifle again and pulled the trigger, but the Hawk was alerted now and already on the move, all Phil managed to do was shoot him in his left leg before his target disappeared over the side of a building where Coulson couldn't see him. Coulson swiftly spoke to the other two agents.

"Target is now shot in the leg and on the ground two blocks from current location on top of the tank. Move in and eliminate!"

Phil quickly climbed down from his vantage point and ran the length of the street he was in to arrive where Barton had fallen off the roof, but when he got to where Hawkeye should be the target was gone. Phil did a double take and quickly looked around but saw no one, the only thing to suggest his target had been here were the few drops of blood on the ground.

Phil couldn't do anything but blink as he stood there trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Hawkeye had fallen off the roof and it was at least two stories to the ground. The fall alone would have killed most people or at least severely injured them with the state Hawkeye had been in prior to that, yet he was gone. Just then his comm crackled to life and Harrison spoke.

"Coulson, do you copy? I can't see anyone. Negative with eyes on target. Be at your location in twenty seconds."

Boyd jogged up to where Coulson was kneeling down examining where Hawkeye had obviously fallen. Coulson looked up at him hopefully.

"Did you see him?"

"Negative sir, the target is gone. What happened in there Phil? I though you said that building had no back windows."

Phil sighed in frustration as Harrison jogged up to join them. Straightening up from where he was crouched on the ground Phil addressed his two agents.

"The buildings like that one that I've been in before didn't have back windows but I should have checked regardless as this one turned out to be an exception. He was fast and somehow knew that I was coming, by the time I realised what was happening he was already out the window and on the move."

Harrison looked at where Phil had been kneeling and frowned.

"Okay, that was unfortunate. What happened here?"

"He somehow managed to survive a fall to the ground from the roof that would have at least injured most people and got away with a bullet in his leg. Fan out and look around, he can't have gone far on foot with his injuries and given what we've seen so far I don't think he had back up."

Both men nodded and the three of them spread out, covering the streets and alleys for three blocks in all directions, in spite of being very thorough their search found exactly nothing. After searching for a couple of hours Phil eventually called them off, slightly annoyed that they'd lost their Hawk. Even more annoyed that the archer had somehow outwitted him and gotten away when he shouldn't have been able to move.

It looked like the bird had flown, literally, as after watching the display on the roof Coulson couldn't help wondering if this archer was actually part bird, some crazy human-bird hybrid. He certainly possessed some rather unusual and unique abilities.

* * *

Clint was concentrating so hard on keeping his footing and not fainting from the concussion that he didn't see the nail sticking out of the roof until he'd snubbed his toe on it, the resulting pain was enough that he gasped and stumbled, going down to his knees as the pain shot up his right leg. He was completely unprepared for the bullet that whizzed past right where his body had been a second before and pinged on the roof next to him. He stared at the spot for a moment before looking for the shooter, he easily found him as given the angle of the shot there was only a couple of spots he could be.

He spotted the man in the suit easily enough due to his marvellous eyesight, it was the same man from the apartment and he had a sniper rifle trained on him, not good news. Right now the best thing he could do was get off the roof and disappear.

Clint darted towards the edge of the roof but before he got there his left leg suddenly exploded with pain, causing him to stumble, lose his balance and fall headfirst over the side of the roof. He managed to grab hold of the metal drain pipe on his way down which enabled him to break his fall somewhat, though it cut up his hands pretty bad in the process it at least meant he landed feet first.

Clint didn't hit the ground gently and gasped quietly in pain as every bone in his body seemed to protest his landing. Taking a second to catch his breath Clint looked down at the blood seeping through the material of his trousers, unfortunately he'd been shot enough times to know what a bullet felt like and that Suit had managed a good hit, every movement his leg made was agonising but he didn't think the bullet had hit anything vital. Still it would make this whole thing harder as he couldn't run very fast or far in the state he was in without passing out or getting caught.

Clint got up; steadying himself with a hand on the wall he managed to mostly ignore the pain from his injuries as he looked desperately around for a way out of his current predicament. Either luck was on his side or the universe took pity on him for once because he saw a garbage bin a few metres away. Running as fast as he could he managed to get to it, lift the lid, climbed in and then close it before the mysterious gunman caught up to him. Clint lay there amongst the rubbish trying not to breathe in the smell and hoping they wouldn't hear his rapid heartbeat as he listened to the men's conversation, not that they said anything particularly useful.

He stayed there for hours. He wasn't too sure he didn't pass out at some point during that time; it wasn't until it was light outside and no one had found him that he was sure they had given up the chase and felt safe enough to come out and disappear. He knew he had to finish this job and get out of the country as soon as he could now, that was his top priority. The best thing he could do was to put as much distance between him and these people as possible.

* * *

"Coulson, looks like our bird has flown the coop."

Phil scowled at the bird analogy but joined Boyd to watch the news report of a successful and wealthy businessman having been shot dead with an arrow early that morning, two days after they'd lost their assassin. Phil was still fretting over that last point and blaming himself for their failure to complete the mission.

"He made the shot, he got out clean, and we haven't had the camera scans pick up anything since. He's in the wind again. What's the plan now boss? We've already been here almost a week."

Both Boyd and Harrison looked at Phil who sighed as he ran his hand through his short hair. He'd just gotten off the phone from speaking with a very pissed off Director Fury, and was feeling like a piece of well-chewed chewing gum.

"We go home. The Director's decided we're wasting our time here and has ordered us all back to the states within the next twenty-four hours. So start packing boys. We leave for the airport in two."

They were already mostly packed, so were ready to go before the two hours were up. All felt disappointment at their failure, but Phil felt something else as well. He'd had plenty of time to think things over since his run in with Barton and despite everything he knew about the assassin he still couldn't shake the desperation he'd seen in Barton's eyes just before the man had disappeared out the window out of his head. That, coupled with all he'd witnessed the archer do up until the time he'd disappeared, made Phil start to have doubts that eliminating this assassin was the best course of action to take.

* * *

**End of chapter 7**

* * *

**The scene of Clint's acrobatics on the rooftops was inspired by a scene of an archer doing a much the same thing in The Wolverine.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't really think I'd have Phil kill Clint did you? Come on, that wouldn't be much of an origin story! Sure, he tried to and managed to shoot him but Clint is simply that good at running away. I hope that you will join us tomorrow for our next chapter;
> 
> Chapter 8: Budapest
> 
> Yes, Budapest. I will say no more.


	8. Budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> As always I want to thank my beta's Midnight Star 26 and jaguarspot! Any mistakes that remain are mine.
> 
> This is also the last chapter beta-ed by Midnight Star26 who was invaluable in helping me make this whole story better.
> 
> The Russian is courtesy of Microsoft Word Translator. I am still looking for a translator if anyone is interested leave a comment and I will get back to you.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy chapter 8!

* * *

Friendship is but a single soul dwelling in two bodies. _Aristotle_

* * *

**Chapter 8: Budapest**

_Budapest; Hungary; July/August, 1998_

Clint was on vacation.

That been said he was often on vacation in the sense of not working, but this time he was actually taking a planned period of time off at a planned destination. He didn't know just why he'd chosen Budapest, apart from the fact he liked the city, the local cuisine was good (always an important point), there were plenty of things he found interesting to do, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and though he understood Hungarian he needed more practice with speaking it. Okay, he knew exactly why he'd chosen Budapest.

Clint had booked into a respectable little motel under the name of Luc Astor, an undergraduate university student from Paris. Clint had many aliases in many different countries, complete with background stories for many of them and multiple ID's. Pretty much no one in the criminal underworld really knew who he was because of this, and Clint liked it that way. He knew his best weapon and defence against his enemies was that the assassin Hawkeye was a shadowy, enigmatic figure who no one knew much about apart from the fact he used arrows to carry out his hits and didn't miss his target. And that had worked just fine for him until the incident in Tokyo a few short weeks ago.

Clint still didn't know who those people had been as nothing they'd said had told him anything to indicate their identity, but as they had almost succeeded in killing him it wasn't hard to figure out that they wanted him dead. At least that guy in the suit who was obviously their leader had. It was the suit that made Clint suspect government involvement, your typical mercenaries and hired thugs normally didn't wear suits of that calibre, those sorts of suits were practically the trademark of feds in his experience and unfortunately he had a lot of experience with what feds wore. It was better not to ask how he'd gotten it.

Clint wondered why Mr. Suit had hesitated in taking the shot the second time. He'd had a good vantage point, and had had enough time to take the shot while Clint had been lying sprawled out on the roof, but he hadn't. He'd hesitated for some reason and as a result had only succeeded in shooting Clint in the leg. Considering some of the stuff Clint had survived in his life being shot non-fatally didn't make the top ten or even twenty injuries he'd suffered in his life.

It had only served to slow him down so that he'd had to take a huge risk by hiding from his pursuers instead of running as far away as fast as was physically possible but it had worked out in the end as he hadn't been found and he had been able to escape alive. His leg wound hadn't even gotten infected despite not being able to treat it until later and was practically healed after only a couple of weeks. Clint had always been extremely grateful that he was such a fast healer.

Those people had quite obviously wanted him dead. That wasn't anything new; people always wanted him dead or were trying to kill him. It had happened to him on and off his whole life. He knew this was one of the better times as he hadn't sustained any injuries that had threatened his life but the fact that there was a lot of people pursuing him at the moment who wanted him dead had him worried. He seemed to be attracting a lot of negative attention lately and that was never a good thing in his line of work.

The resulting stress of having to constantly be aware of what was happening around him and be ready to foil an attempt on his life no matter when it may occur was starting to wear him down both physically and mentally. He wasn't sleeping much at night and if he did manage to doze off he was tormented by nightmares that ensured the little sleep he managed to get wasn't restful.

That was what had led him to take some time out in Budapest. He'd never taken any contracts in this city and so didn't have any negative memories associated with being here. He was hoping that meant he'd be able to unwind somewhat because he knew if he kept going the way he was sooner or later he would either die from the strain or be killed by his enemies. The stress he was under was causing him to slip up and he couldn't allow that to happen. If that happened Clint knew he was as good as dead.

* * *

_A hysterical heart-wrenching scream shatters the silence as the man lies dead on the ground, an arrow sticking out of his chest, his eyes sightless and blank, a stunned look on his tanned face. The man's wife is the one screaming, calling his name over and over hysterically, "Paul! Paul! Can you hear me? Say something! PAUL! PAUL? This can't be happening, what's happening? PAUL! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! PAUUUUL! HELP!"_

Clint flinched awake violently, breathing hard as his left hand automatically reached for a knife he kept under his pillow and he was up and crouched in a defensive position on the bed with the knife at the ready well before his brain caught up with his body and he realised it was just a nightmare. With that realisation he slumped back down onto the bed, breathing hard he dropped the knife and desperately tried to stop his hands from shaking.

He didn't remember all the names of the people he'd killed and the circumstances surrounding their deaths very often, but that only meant that when he did get a clear picture it was even worse.

Tonight he'd gotten a very clear picture. The Langley's had been newly married and on their honey moon when Clint had retired Paul. His new wife turned widow, Catherine, had been devastated. The nightmare had seemed so real, but then they always seemed real, often more real than the actual hit had been. Clint sat up in bed and concentrated on breathing slowly to calm his heartbeat down; he was in a cold sweat and shivering despite the summer weather and the cool breeze drifting in through the open window.

Clint shook his head to try and clear it of the nightmare before burying his face in hands that were still shaking. It did no good; he needed to get out, fresh air was the only way he could fight the nightmares and guilt that constantly plagued him. Fresh air or running until he was exhausted were a few of the only things he'd found that helped him to focus and reconnect with reality after a nightmare. Shooting his bow also helped sometimes but that wasn't an option available to him very often due to not having the facilities to practice very much. Due to how good a shot he was if he turned up at an archery range people had a tendency to start asking awkward questions.

Looking at the clock he realised he'd barely been asleep for two hours, and that it was almost 11 pm. Clint decided to go for a jog to the twenty-four hour pastry shop he'd found tucked away in a quiet side street halfway across town. The run would help him calm down and clear his head and he could take a few detours to make it last longer.

Clint walked down the front steps of the motel wearing black jeans and a dark grey t-shirt, along with his black sneakers. He also had his knives on him, all hidden out of sight though he left his bow behind. In spite of the fact he was on holiday he rarely went anywhere without it but in this instance it wasn't necessary. Clint started to jog towards the pastry shop, taking a slightly longer route than was strictly necessary to give himself plenty of time to clear his head. He inhaled the cool night air deeply and tried to allow his mind to go blank.

Clint was jogging through a picturesque, older part of town when he suddenly heard hysterical screams coming from a couple of streets away, the screams were abruptly cut off in a way that sounded very suspicious. Clint abruptly changed his course and without conscious thought headed in the general direction the screams had come from.

He rounded a corner and found himself in a street lined with large, rambling old houses. Many of them looked run down and deserted, but a few were definitely occupied, the cars parked out front were a dead giveaway. The sweet smell of flowers hung over the street and presented a tranquil atmosphere.

But Clint knew better, the way that screaming had abruptly cut off sounded very suspicious and could mean a few things. Clint hid himself in the garden of one of the abandoned buildings towards the end of the street and waited to see what would happen next. He wasn't sure what else to do.

Clint's sharp eyes scanned everything that happened in the street, a few windows were now lit up; obviously the screaming had alerted them, but he saw no one. Clint waited a few minutes but when nothing happened he decided it was time for him to leave, before someone found him hiding in a garden. That might be a hard thing to explain to police. Just as he was going to go out the front gate he heard the loud wail of police sirens not too far away, great. He'd have to go out the back way, and hope that no one saw him in the process. Clint begun to wonder why he'd even come to check things out in the first place.

The back garden of the house was dark and full of shadows which were constantly moving. Clint breathed very softly and listening hard to every little sound as he tried to blend into the night, it was a difficult thing to do with the hearing aids and he longed for the near perfect hearing he'd once possessed. Then he thought he heard something. Clint froze before he silently pressed himself into the shadows of a bush that grew against the house and waited, breathing very softly and hoping his thumping heartbeat wouldn't give him away as he laid a hand on one of the knives on his belt.

He saw the figure in black slink around the corner of the house obviously trying not to be seen, and then pause. They turned their head, listening to the police sirens in the distance and Clint suddenly caught a glimpse of fiery red hair where the faint glow from the streetlamp fell on it. He let out a small gasp of surprise before he could stop himself, and the next second found she had a gun trained on him as she regarded him with those deep green eyes he remembered so well.

Clint said one word.

"Natalia."

She obviously recognised his voice as she peered at him for a moment before she lowered the gun slightly, only slightly but at least it wasn't pointed right at his head anymore.

"Clint? Hawkeye?"

"The one and only at your service ma'am."

She stood there staring at him for a moment before she lowered the gun a bit more.

"What are you doing here?"

Clint shrugged nonchalantly.

"I heard screams that sounded suspicious and being the good citizen I am not came to see what was happening. I guess you were the one responsible?"

The girl's eyes bore into him.

"I mean _here_ , in Budapest?" She said sharply.

"I'm taking an official vacation. I decided I needed a break and Budapest is nice this time of year. Let me guess, you have a job to do?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Come on Natalia, I wasn't born yesterday, after our last meeting I did some research on you, it's amazing what people will tell you with the right incentive. I know who you really are Nat; the infamous Black Widow is a highly trained Russian assassin, KGB or one of their associates I believe. That fact along with what I just heard and it doesn't take a genius to figure out why _you're_ here."

Natalia stood a bit stiffer and straighter at that.

"My name is Natasha now. Natasha Romanov. Natalia Romanova no longer exists."

Before Clint could reply to that statement they heard the police arrive in the front street. The sound of cars screeching to a halt, sirens blaring and people yelling brought them both to their senses. They were, after all, trained assassins whose lives depended on not being caught.

Without exchanging words they both moved as fast and silently as they could towards the back fence. Clint boosted Natasha up and over and then scaled it himself, landing easily on the other side thanks to his acrobat training. The two assassins emerged onto another street and started jogging up it, turning the first corner they came to and moving in the opposite direction as fast as they could without looking suspicious.

As soon as they were what they judged to be a safe distance away they slowed down and walked normally side by side. They said nothing until Clint suddenly spoke up.

"Do you like pastries?"

Natasha looked at him sideways.

"As in the kind you eat?"

Clint looked at her like she had two heads.

"What else do you do with pastries?"

Then on second thoughts,

"Don't answer that. I don't think I really want to know what else pastries can be used for."

Natasha smirked slightly.

"In answer to your first question then, yes, I do like the kind of pastries you eat well enough."

"Feel like going and getting some? I found this wonderful little place that is open 24/7. Best pastries in town they say, best in the world I think and I've had pastries in a lot of different countries."

Natasha hesitated for a moment before making up her mind. She normally left town immediately after doing a job but she hadn't had any company for ages and she kind of liked Clint.

"Okay."

Clint led the way to the pastry store and Natasha followed him meekly. After buying half the pastries available, at least it seemed like Clint did that to Natasha (he obviously had a _very_ sweet tooth) the two assassins headed to an abandoned warehouse building not that far away where they were unlikely to be disturbed, it was also where Natasha was currently camped out. As soon as they were settled and eating the pastries Clint asked the question that he'd been dying to ask since she'd first told him.

"Why Natasha? I thought Natalia was nice, it was very different."

Natalia/Natasha sent him a glare that would kill a lesser man.

"Because I wanted to."

Clint smirked and brushed off the glare as if it was nothing.

"New wording then. Why'd you want to?"

He felt her eyes on him as he turned back to the bag and grabbed another pastry, this one filled with custard. He ignored her as he bit into the crisp outer crust and allowed the sweet custard to fill his mouth, it was delicious. Once he'd finished it he looked over at Natasha. She was watching him, a small frown gracing her features. Just as he was wondering if she would answer him she spoke suddenly.

"Natalia Romanova wasn't my name. It was the name _they_ gave me. Natasha Romanov is a name I gave myself. A new name for a new life, a life without _them_ controlling me."

Clint nodded slowly.

"Who's _them_?"

Natasha looked at him hard for a long moment before replying.

"The Red Room Academy, associates of the KGB like you said."

Clint nodded slowly as his brain worked in overdrive to put all the pieces she'd given him together.

"Are they the ones who trained you? You can't be any older than me and I know from experience that to get as good as you are you have to have been training hard for years."

Not seeing the dark look in her eyes at the question he added quietly, almost to himself, lost in his own memories.

"I know that I have been; I started learning how to use a bow when I was barely a teenager and was an expert marksman before I turned fifteen. It was either be the best or get beaten and I don't like being abused."

Her eyes softened a bit at that last quiet admission.

"I understand, it was the same with me. Only it was be the best or die, we got no second chances."

Clint nodded in silent understanding and sympathy and they were both silent for a few minutes before Clint spoke again.

"So, you've left them to go at it by yourself? That's a brave thing to do."

"Yes."

Clint didn't know what she was saying yes to and didn't ask. There was silence for another moment before Natasha spoke.

"What about you Clint, who trained you? You said you started training as a teenager as well?"

"I learnt how to use a bow and arrows in the circus when I was in my early teens; one of the performers was a professional trick archer and taught me. I was in the army for a while after leaving the circus before they kicked me out and then I kind of drifted into my current job, I needed to eat."

She glanced at him, one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows raised in a question.

"A circus?"

He nodded, a wry smile on his lips at the raised eyebrow. He got the impression from her body language that she didn't show emotion very often.

"Yep, a circus. I didn't exactly have your typical American white picket fence upbringing."

They were both quiet for a minute as they absorbed each other's stories, or the little they'd told each other. Clint was the first to speak.

"You know, I think Natasha suits you better than Natalia anyway. Now I can call you Tasha for short. Much more fetching than Nat."

Natasha glared at him but the glare didn't hold any real threat.

"Don't you dare call me Tasha, birdbrain. I just might clip your wings if you do, and I don't think you'd like that."

Clint probably should have dropped the subject but was never one to back down from a challenge and had never learned to keep his mouth shut when he probably should. He was reasonably sure Natasha wasn't about to kill him. At least he was _hopeful_ she wouldn't, not that there was really anything stopping her from doing it. Besides, if she called him birdbrain...

"Why Tasha? What's wrong with Tasha? If you call me birdbrain, I get to call you Tasha, fair's fair. Tasha, Tasha, Tasha."

Natasha stood up and advanced on Clint's position with a murderous look on her face. Clint actually cowed a little but she didn't look like she was actually about to kill him, she looked more along the lines of slightly annoyed.

"That's it, you bird brained archer! You will feel the wrath of the Black Widow!"

* * *

Five minutes later Clint was lying on the ground, helpless with laugher. Natasha had wrestled him there easily and then proceeded to well and truly tickle him, and it hadn't taken her long to find the spots he was most ticklish in. There weren't many, but she found them. It was almost as if Natasha had trained for tickle torture, which she probably had been. Tickle Torture. Clint wasn't sure if such a thing was even supposed to exist but it apparently did. He was also going to have several colourful bruises tomorrow or the next day thanks to the hard concrete floor but Clint was used to bruises.

Nat had finally let him go after he'd promised to not call her Tasha again so long as she didn't call him birdbrain. Nat was ok, but not Tasha. Knowing this woman could probably kill him by tickling him to death Clint had agreed to that in the end. It was a much safer option.

* * *

The two assassins were on their way back to Clint's apartment early the next morning, a few hours later. They'd both had fun, talking and teasing each other about nothing in particular, and climbing around in the roof of the warehouse, Natasha was almost as much of a monkey as Clint was. They were taking a short cut down an alley to get to a main road when suddenly two hooded figures rose up from where they had crouched down behind some trash cans, both of them were holding guns.

"Руки в воздухе. Не пытайтесь что-либо смешно, у нас резервного копирования." ( _Hands in the air. Don't try anything funny, we've got backup_ )

Natasha barely waited for him to finish she moved. Running towards them she used her hands and pushing herself up and over the bin before wrapping her thighs around his neck and used her core muscle strength to throw him back over the bin and onto the ground. There was a loud crack and his body went limp before it even hit the ground. The other one fired off a shot which Natasha dodged before tackling him to the ground, trying to grab his gun. Going by the gasping sounds and thuds from behind her she surmised Clint was fighting as well. The number of people in the alley seemed to be multiplying. As Natasha dodged a fist and kicked a man in a very tender place she he hoped Clint was okay.

* * *

Clint hadn't hesitated when Natasha had lunged at the first man. He sensed rather then heard the man with the gun behind him and swung around suddenly, grabbing the man's arm before he could pull the trigger and dislocating it by jamming his own elbow into the top of it. The man grunted in pain and dropped the gun to cradle his injured arm to his chest. Grabbing the pistol from the ground and spinning around Clint discharged two bullets, killing him and one other man, before they were all on him.

It seemed like there were a dozen of them. Clint used all his acrobatic training and practical experience as well as whatever weapons he found at hand as he twisted around, fighting these people who for some reason wanted them dead. He heard a shot come from where Natasha was engaged in fighting three men who were twice her size; it was followed by a gasp of pain. Clint seriously hoped that she was the one doing the damage and not the other way around. He couldn't really explain it but he seriously didn't want anything to happen to her and as he fought on he really hoped that she was okay.

* * *

Natasha knocked out the last of the men she was fighting with the handle of his own gun before turning to see Clint hold a man's windpipe in a choke hold until he finally ran out of oxygen and this body went limp. He'd been the last one.

Natasha surveyed the scene with her hands on her hips; at least a dozen bodies littered the alley. Some were still alive but out cold; most however, were no longer alive. She looked at Clint and realised that he had a nasty looking cut on the top of his head. Hurrying over to him she inspected the wound. It didn't look terribly deep but was long and bleeding fairly heavily.

"Are you okay? You've got a gash the length of the Nile River on your head."

He looked at her with more than a hint of a concussion evident in his unusual coloured eyes though he appeared to be completely unaware of it, instead looking at her with concern.

"And you've just taken a bullet to the leg."

What? She glanced down at her right thigh, registering for the first time that it hurt. The bullet seemed to still be in there but hadn't hit any arteries as it wasn't bleeding heavily enough for that. It did hurt however, and she wasn't sure she would be able to run very fast with it in there, it wasn't enough to stop her but it would definitely slow her down.

Clint was already using his knife to cut strips of cloth from the shirt of one of the men he'd knocked out. Binding one around her thigh he allowed her to tie up the cut on his head. Then they looked at each other, each thinking the same thing. Clint spoke first.

"Let's get out of here."

The two of them ran as fast as Natasha could manage to the end of the alley and emerged onto a thankfully fairly quiet street. As they ran Natasha told Clint who the people were.

"Russian mercenaries, most likely sent by the Red Room to eliminate me. This is the third lot in almost as many months they've sent after me. At first they were trying to catch me to send me back, the order is now apparently elimination going by something one of them said to me. We'd best keep our eyes open as there is sure to be more of them around. It's unlikely they would stop at just send one team after me as they didn't last time. How they found me I really don't know, I was very careful with covering my tracks this time and thought I was in the clear."

As she spoke there was yelling behind them in Russian. Natasha muttered some very creative Russian swear words that actually made Clint raise an eyebrow, which was saying something as he'd learnt pretty much every Russian swearword that existed from the circus Strongman, Samson, when he was a teenager. Clint began to look around for a way to escape; he knew Natasha couldn't go too far on foot with a bullet in her leg so outrunning them was out of the question. Then Clint saw a motorbike sitting down a side lane idling with the keys in the ignition and smiled. That would do nicely.

Telling Natasha to _wait right here_ Clint sprinted up the lane. As the bike was running Clint just jumped on and skidded around in a turn to go back to Natasha. Just as he was leaving the man who owned the bike came racing out of the house yelling, but by then Clint was already almost at the corner. Knowing the man would likely call the police and they didn't have much time to get a head start because of their Russian pursuers Clint skidded to a halt next to Natasha and held out his hand.

"Quickly Nat, we haven't got any time to lose!"

Natasha took one look around and glanced at her leg before taking the offered hand and climbing on behind him. Clint revved the engine and took off, hearing the cursing from the man as they left him behind. Natasha held onto Clint tightly, red hair flying out behind her.

Coming out on a main highway Clint joined the early morning traffic and sped along in the outside lane. Just as they came towards a corner a blue car sped up next to them. One glimpse confirmed that it was the Russians, as they had a gun trained on them. How had they managed to catch them up so quickly? Clint accelerated and sped away into the traffic as the Russians open fired on them creating mass chaos and hysteria. Clint began changing lanes and cutting in and out of cars almost faster than the eye could follow to try and throw their aim off. Unable to take his eyes off the road ahead he called back to Natasha.

"How far behind are they?"

The answer was delivered a moment later.

"About five cars back but coming up fast. They're good and trained for this sort of thing; you're going to have to do something really creative to lose them."

Clint thought quickly. Seeing a break in the traffic to his left he took it, screeching in front of a truck and using it to provide some cover from the mercenaries, ignoring the angry honking he received from the truck's driver. He had more important things on his mind, like not getting killed.

He was concentrating so hard on trying to lose them and keep them alive that Natasha's shout came as a shock.

"Clint, look out!"

Clint saw the car pull into the traffic ahead too late to swerve away; his only other options were to crash into it or go over it. He opted for the latter and tightened his grip on the handlebars as he prepared to do something he'd only ever witnessed someone else do.

Natasha had her arms wrapped around him in a death grip and might have even buried her face in his shoulders as he picked up even more speed before gaining enough momentum to make the bike speed along on its back wheel before he revved hard and jumped it up and onto the car. Ignoring the angry yells and the honking horns he received for his trouble Clint practically flew over the top of the vehicle and landed in front of it before taking off.

Accelerating into the traffic again Clint resumed weaving in and out of the maze of vehicles.

"Have we lost them yet Nat?"

It took slightly longer than last time for her to reply which was understandable given the circumstances.

"I can't see them; your evasion tactics seem to have worked. It might be a good idea to get off the main motorway soon though. They can't be far behind."

Clint agreed with her. Looking up ahead he saw an exit ramp leading to a more upper class residential area which wasn't too busy at this time of day and put on some extra speed to reach it, making sure to continue to weave in and out of traffic on his way there. Once they reached it Clint wasted no time in leaving the main road behind them.

They went a couple of blocks at normal speed, cutting in and out of the lighter traffic and zooming up and down side streets a few times before Clint steered down a pedestrian stairway, ending up in another, thankfully empty, street in what appeared to be a service area of town, not residential. Natasha was gripping him so hard that by this time her knuckles were white, and Clint swore in French as the landing from the stairway wasn't as smooth as he'd anticipated and he heard a muffled gasp of pain from Natasha as her injured leg was painfully jolted.

Clint thanked his lucky stars that no one had been on the stairs. He didn't want to hurt innocents if he didn't have to; he did enough of that already. Clint was feeling slightly dizzy from his head wound, and Natasha needed medical attention for the bullet wound in her leg. After riding a couple of blocks at normal speed to make sure they had well and truly lost their pursuers Clint saw a veterinarian clinic sitting on a corner and knew that it would have the necessary supplies. He dropped Natasha off at the back with instructions to get inside while he got rid of the bike. Clint wiped it down before hiding it in an alley behind a dustbin under some old sacks and going back to the clinic. The back door was unlocked and he entered, closing it softly behind him before locking it.

Finding his way to the supply room where Natasha already was Clint felt slightly dizzy and sick so he realised he must be concussed. He knew it must have happened during the fight but he had been so focussed on getting them to safety that it hadn't registered before. Looking back he was grateful that he'd been aware enough to handle the motorcycle, but then he had always been able to function in an emergency no matter how injured he'd been. As long as he wasn't actively dying he could do what needed to be done. When Clint finally found her Natasha already had the supplies they needed to treat their injuries laid out, and she gave him a pointed look as he came in.

"Where the hell did you learn to drive a motorcycle like that without getting yourself killed?!"

Clint sighed, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Remember the circus I told you I was a part of?"

Nat nodded.

"Yes."

"In my later years there one of the acts was a motorcycle act; I used to help them with looking after the bikes and in return one of the guys, his name was Lefty, taught me how to ride one. He was a crazily good stunt rider and I'm a fast study. I think they had done something illegal and were hiding from the law because they were seriously too good at what they did to work for a small travelling circus like ours for no reason. They could easily have made more money elsewhere."

"What happened to them?"

"They left the circus not long before I did. There was a huge argument with the ringmaster; I think they wanted more money, he said no and so they left. I don't know what happened to them after that."

As Clint finished his story his brain registered that Natasha was holding a pair of scissors and he suddenly felt very wary.

"What are you doing with those?"

"We need to treat our wounds. You first, head wounds are more serious than bullets in legs are. No arguments. Now sit."

Clint opened his mouth to argue but she cut him off.

"I said no arguments. Now SIT!"

Clint's mouth snapped shut and he did as he was told. It was a much safer option, given who he was dealing with and the fact that she was holding a pair of scissors and he wasn't. Natasha removed the makeshift bandage and carefully began cleaning his head wound while Clint did his best not to wince. She spoke to him about nothing in particular as she cleaned his wound, her voice carrying a slight trace of a Russian accent. She finished the job and Clint interrupted her.

"How bad is my head?"

She regarded him with a serious expression.

"It's bled a fair bit but is clean, and not as deep as I initially thought it was. I really think that it needs stitches though."

Clint snorted.

"No way, I hate stitches. Now you sit down and let's see to that leg of yours. And no arguments from you either!"

Natasha obediently sat down on the chair he'd vacated. Clint removed the makeshift bandage and carefully cut her blood-stained black jeans before he rolled them away from the bullet wound and examined it. The bullet hadn't hit anything vital but the wound was very messy all the same; getting it out was going to hurt like hell.

"The first thing we have to do is remove the bullet."

He glanced at the supplies she'd laid out. Selecting what he wanted after a moment of deliberation Clint turned back to her.

"This is going to hurt." He warned. "There's not much I can do about that I'm afraid. Are you ready?"

She just nodded, her face tight.

"Do it."

* * *

Ten minutes later Natasha's leg was clean, stitched and bandaged, the bullet having been removed. It hadn't been too bad, and the pain numbing cream Clint had found in one of the cupboards helped a lot. Once she was cleaned up she insisted on stitching Clint's head, and satisfied that she wasn't about to die and feeling very drowsy, he let her. Thank goodness for pain numbing, antibiotic cream. After cleaning up the place, wiping down everything they'd touched and taking some antibiotic tablets that despite being meant for animals would work until they could get something stronger, the two assassins left.

After stealing a pair of pants off a random clothesline nearby for Natasha to wear as hers were covered in blood and cut, they 'borrowed' a car that happened to be sitting just around the corner and went back to Clint's motel room, leaving the car at the end of the street. They stumbled into the lobby clinging to each other, laughing and acting like they were drunk so people wouldn't realise they were so unsteady on their feet because they were injured. It was around three am in the morning and their ploy worked perfectly; there was pretty much no one around but the staff who after a quick glance didn't take any more notice of an apparently drunk couple staggering into the hotel at that hour. Due to their performance they managed to make it to Clint's room without incident.

They spent the next few days there, recuperating. They ordered food to be delivered right to the door and took care of each other's wounds. By the time a week had gone by Natasha's leg was almost completely healed; it would leave a scar though it wouldn't be very noticeable. Clint had gotten over his concussion after a few days and against Natasha's protests had taken his stitches out. Fortunately he was still healing well in spite of that. The two assassins were perched on the roof of the motel watching the sun set over the city almost a week later when Clint asked an unexpected question.

"Would you like to be my partner?"

Natasha looked at him like he was insane.

"What?"

Clint smirked.

"Don't worry, I meant my partner in crime, so to speak. Interested?"

Natasha thought hard before finally shaking her head.

"No."

Now it was Clint's turn to stare.

"Why not? We've just proved we make a fantastic team. Separate we are great, together we'll be unstoppable, the infamous Hawkeye and Black Widow."

Natasha just shook her head.

"It's not that, it's the Red Room. They may have failed to kill me this time but I know them and they won't give up. They'll try again and again and won't rest until they eventually kill or capture me; I don't want you to have to deal with my problems. I don't want to endanger you."

Blue-grey eyes looked into deep green ones, reading them, looking for something. Natasha gazed right back, and finally Clint gave a small sigh and dropped his gaze in defeat.

He understood what she was saying; she knew the life of an assassin was hard enough without added problems. She didn't want him to have to carry her demons as well as his own. He could understand that, the demons in both their pasts were ugly. There was something that he had to know first though, something that had been on his mind for ages.

"Why did you help me in Prague?"

She glanced at him quickly before turning away to study the fading orange of the sunset. Clint waited patiently for her to answer, and when she did it wasn't what he'd expected, not that he'd known what he expected her to say but it wasn't this.

"I don't really know. In Moscow, you were the first person to lay eyes on me that didn't want to use me for some ulterior purpose. You were immune to my charms and I felt you saw straight through me, saw into my very soul and knew what I was thinking, yet you didn't take advantage of that. When I saw you in Prague I knew I couldn't just leave you there, I had to do something. I'm still not sure why I did, but I did. Does that answer your question?"

Clint though what she'd said over carefully before his lips quirked into a small smile as he looked over at her.

"Yes; it does."

Natasha almost smiled back before frowning.

"Why did you help me a week ago? You probably saved my life, I'm not sure that I would have been able to get away from those mercenaries by myself."

"You would have thought of something, I'm sure of it. What I did was no big deal."

Natasha frowned harder.

"How is saving my life not a big deal? Honestly Clint, I owe you one."

Clint shook his head immediately, looking scared at the thought.

"No you don't, you helped me in Prague remember? You helped me out when I needed it and I helped you get away from those mercs. I'd say we're pretty well even in the owing each other department; as far as I'm concerned you don't owe me anything Natasha, the debt you think you owe has already been repaid."

Natasha looked out over the city and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Fine, if that's what you want to do."

Clint sighed.

"I just don't want you to feel that you owe me Nat, please just let's call it even."

After a long moment it was Natasha's turn to sigh as she turned her head to look at Clint with more sincerity than he'd ever seen on her.

"Okay then, neither one owes the other anything. Happy?"

Clint nodded and they both resumed watching the fading daylight, it was a fair while later when Clint spoke again.

"Is it okay if we're still friends? Just friends, no strings attached and nothing expected beyond what we already have. I think that I would like that, I've never actually had someone I could call a friend before."

Family didn't really count especially when they'd never cared that much about you to begin with.

Natasha turned her head and deep green eyes looked at him, her long curly red hair framing her face and looked redder than ever as the last rays of the setting sun touched it. Then she smiled a genuine smile that lit up her whole face in a way Clint had never seen happen on anyone before. All he could do was stare in wonder at the beautiful sight before him.

"I've never had a friend before either." She whispered as she gazed into his eyes, traces of a Russian accent clouded her next words. "Yes, I think I'd like that; to be able to call you my friend."

He felt a matching smile surface on his face that he didn't bother suppressing. He'd never known someone to do to him what Natasha did just by smiling. As the smile grew wider, he looked deep into her eyes, and whispered in her ear in a soft tone that completely melted her, something that no one in her life had ever succeeded in doing.

"I'm glad to hear that, _Natasha_."

* * *

**End of Chapter 8**

* * *

**The motorbike chase scene was heavily inspired by The Bourne Legacy.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love Clintasha? In my universe it was in Budapest that the seed of Strike Team Delta was sown, way before either of its core assassins were a part of SHIELD. That being said it won't be the last time we see Budapest. I hope you'll all tune in tomorrow as we find out what Phil has been up to all this time apart from pulling his hair out;
> 
> Chapter 9: Choices
> 
> For those who want more of Phil the next chapter is very heavily Phil-centred. So, what do you think of Strike Team Delta's origin? Please let me know!


	9. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> Hi again, apologies for not posting sooner but the last couple of days have been crazy. It's only the second week since Uni started back and I already have assignments due, ugh. Anyway, it's the weekend now so the last chapter should be up tomorrow if all goes according to plan.
> 
> As always I want to thank my beta jaguarspot. Her help was invaluable to me in making sure everything I wrote made sense and giving me new ideas to play with. Any mistakes that are found remaining are mine.
> 
> The French is courteously of Microsoft Word Translator. I'm still in the market for a French translator if anyone would like to volunteer?
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter. Enter Coulson!

* * *

You make a choice in your life and it affects your life in all the ways, both good and bad. _John Mayer_

* * *

**Chapter 9: Choices**

_August, 1998;_

_SHIELD's New York Base; over a month earlier:_

"You think WHAT? Have you officially taken leave of your senses Phil?"

"Maybe I have Director, because I honestly think there has to be a better solution to this problem then elimination."

"And just what happened that caused you to change your mind? A week ago you were more than ready to take Hawkeye out; I had a difficult time restraining you."

"Things change Director, and people can also change given the right chances and motivations, we both know that. After what I witnessed Hawkeye do in Tokyo I think that elimination would be a waste of potential and talent that we can benefit from having on our side."

A pause. Phil waited. Then,

"He's a trained killer Phil, not some lost puppy looking for a home. He's dangerous."

"Granted he is a trained killer, imagine if he was _our_ trained killer though. You have any idea what a valuable asset he would make if we can bring him on board?"

Fury resisted the urge to groan and roll his eye or rub his eye patch. Instead he simply stared over his desk at Phil; the two men were meeting in Fury's private office.

Coulson and his team had arrived back early that morning and had been debriefed on what had happened in Tokyo. As soon as that was over Phil had requested a private meeting with Fury ASAP, and then proceeded to tell Nick he thought that Hawkeye would be an amazing agent if Nick were to reconsider the kill order and instead think about bringing him on board as an asset.

 _Bringing him on board?_ Bringing a crazy, rogue, and deadly ex-sniper turned free-lance assassin into a covert government organisation? That was a bad idea on so many levels. Before Fury could contemplate any further on that line of thought Phil spoke up again.

"Just think about it for a moment Nick. We currently don't have any professional long distance assassins in this agency and our need for specialists in this area is growing every day. I can think of at least five jobs in the last few months that if we had had a long distance operative in the organisation would have been easy. Given Barton's sniper training and his obvious skills with distance kills he would be invaluable in this regard."

"We could train a long distance assassin if you really want one but that would take time; what if we could have one _now_? One who's among the most feared and skilled in the world and already has most of the necessary training and real life experience? You let me do this Nick and we might very well end up with one of the greatest assets we've ever brought into SHIELD."

"Or everyone here could end up dead, that's what's more likely to happen."

Phil didn't answer that, instead he simply watched Fury and waited for him to speak again. Fury contemplated what Phil had said carefully, he did have a point. Fury picked up Barton's military service file, which was lying open on the desk between them, and flipped through it again. He'd already read it through several times but this time he read Barton's evaluations and scores very carefully, thinking hard while he did.

They were impressive, the shooting scores in particular. He'd never once missed what he'd aimed at, no matter what gun or rifle he'd used. And Fury knew he was a crack shot with a bow and arrows, his track record as an assassin spoke for him as far as his shooting prowess was concerned. There was no doubt SHIELD could use those skills, it was the other parts of the file that concerned Fury.

Barton's disdain for authority could be a big problem. Even though they were more flexible than the army he would still have to listen to other's orders and follow them, two things that according to his file he wasn't very good at. Being an assassin-for-hire for almost 18 months wasn't likely to have done his emotional and mental states much good; even if they successfully brought him on board he might prove to be too unstable and have to be terminated after all. There were many what-ifs in this idea and a high chance it would fail spectacularly or back fire on them.

Fury finished reading through everything in the file and thought very hard for about five minutes. Finally reaching a decision he looked across at Phil who was waiting rather impatiently for him to speak.

"How do you propose to stop him killing everyone here on sight? From what I know about him, which admittedly isn't much, he doesn't exactly bleed mental stability."

"Easy, joining SHIELD will have to be his own choice. I won't force him to, I'll ask him nicely, and if he accepts and wants to be here there won't be a problem with that."

"And if he _doesn't_ accept Phil? It's on the books he won't, he's been his own boss for the last eighteen or so months and he may not want to go back to taking orders from someone else."

Phil swallowed at that and when he spoke he was careful to keep his voice devoid of any emotion.

"Then I'll take him out sir, just as originally planned. You said it yourself, he's dangerous. That's why I think we should do our uttermost to have him with us. Killing him would be the worst thing we've ever done if he can be converted to our side."

Fury suddenly longed for this meeting to be over, however Phil had made his point about Hawkeye. Convincing the higher-ups might be a different matter, and there was the small problem of his criminal record and the dishonourable discharge from the army, along with the fact Hawkeye the assassin was on several government hit-lists, but for now Fury was willing to give Phil the benefit of the doubt. Having a trained long distance assassin on board would be a good idea and they could definitely use one, but _this_ assassin?

Fury had his doubts about recruiting this one.

"OK Phil, here's the deal. You go after him alone and try and convince him to join us. If he refuses then you take him out then and there, just as you should have the first time around. I'm not happy about this, but I trust you Phil and if you succeed I'll back you up the whole way and deal with the government types who are going to be distinctly _less_ happy with this. If he refuses the recruitment offer than you take him out and the higher-ups don't know any of this ever happened. Just try not to let him kill you first Phil; that would be a waste of a valuable asset we already have."

Phil smirked, then nodded, an almost grin spreading over his face as he heard Fury's last statement.

"I didn't know you cared so much about me sir, but thank you."

Fury just frowned.

"Don't thank me yet Phil; thank me when you come out of this mess alive. You are on your own with this, I can't risk the lives of any of my Agents in this mad endeavour of yours. And you be careful please, I've lost one good eye already and I don't want it to happen again."

Phil nodded, looking supremely happy now that he'd gotten what he wanted.

"I will be careful, thanks boss. I'd better go get started on finding Barton again. I've got a lot of work to do."

Fury just watched as Phil picked up the file and left. As the door swung shut behind him Fury tapped a finger on his desk, lost in thought.

Nick was sure there was more to what happened in Tokyo that Phil purposefully wasn't telling him about. It just didn't make sense that Phil would be so keen to kill Hawkeye a week ago and was now even keener to spare his life and recruit him. Fury wouldn't ever admit it out loud but the idea of having a trained assassin on board was very appealing and he was sure that's why Phil had played that card. However he was sure Phil's motivations came from something much deeper than what would benefit SHIELD.

Not many people within the organisation knew about Phil's somewhat chequered past or what he and Fury had been through together when they were younger. It wasn't need-to-know for anyone and wasn't on any record. Of course that didn't stop the rampant speculation that constantly made the rounds, especially among new recruits, but none of those rumours were even remotely close to the truth.

The truth in its simplest form was that Nick had once given Phil a chance to make his mark on the world in a positive way. Phil had gone beyond anything Nick had ever initially expected of him, even saving Fury's life at a great cost to himself. It was due to this past that Fury trusted Phil the way he did. He trusted him enough to at least let him offer Hawkeye a similar chance at living a different life to the one he currently had.

They just had to catch him first, preferably without anyone getting hurt in the process. From past experiences Fury knew it would be easier said than done. But if anyone could do the impossible in this instance, Phil Coulson was definitely the man for the job.

* * *

_Two months later._

Phil wondering half-seriously if Fury was right and he really was going senile in his advancing age, never mind that he was barely thirty. What he was going to attempt to do was perhaps the craziest thing he'd ever done in his life, and that was really saying something given Phil Coulson's life. He was actually going to came face-to-face with one of the most feared and deadly assassins in the world, and then offer him a job.

Yep, he was definitely crazy.

Of course, he didn't expect it to be that easy in practice. First he had to find Barton (which wouldn't be easy), then get close enough to actually speak to him without been killed (a feat in itself), convince him this wasn't a scam (that would be almost impossible), and hopefully then bring him back to SHIELD (the most favourable outcome). If that plan didn't work then Phil was under standing orders from Nick to take him out, but Phil wasn't sure he'd be able to carry through with it if it actually came to that.

His doubts about killing the assassin had started coming after he'd locked eyes with Barton for a few moments in that boarding house in Tokyo. Those eyes, Phil hadn't been able to shake them out of his memory. They were so empty and devoid of hope. The boy had looked so young, lost and broken, so desperate and _lonely_. No wonder really, he had no one to care for him or about him, no friends, from what was recorded in his military file no family, or at least none who cared about him given he had apparently had an older brother.

After knowing all that he did about Barton's past Phil had felt slightly uncomfortable with killing him in Tokyo but at the time had reasoned with himself it was the best course of action to take for everyone involved. However, that was before he'd actually laid eyes on the kid and realised he had probably never been given a chance in life to do something good.

After watching him in action on the roofs and then shooting him Phil had been sure he would find the assassin lying on the ground and the end would be swift. He hadn't particularly liked the thought of killing him but at that stage had still been on an adrenaline rush and hadn't been thinking beyond carrying out his orders, completing the mission, and keeping his agents safe.

Then Hawkeye had somehow managed to pull a disappearing act right under their noses despite being wounded and outnumbered. It was afterwards, when Phil had had time to think and clear his head, that he'd come to the conclusion that killing Barton would probably be the worst thing they could do in this situation. The look in the ex-snipers eye's made Phil feel sure he didn't enjoy what he did. Phil was good at reading people's eyes and Barton's eyes had been so empty and hopeless, not seeing any way out of his current predicament. It had been at that precise moment that Phil had suddenly longed to offer him a way out but he wasn't about to disobey direct orders due to feeling regrets, Phil faced regrets in his job all the time and he buried them all deep within himself. It was only later when they were back at the safe house that Phil had started to think of recruiting Barton into SHIELD as actually being possible.

With the right sort of guidance and encouragement Barton could easily be something great one day, he could even surpass Phil, his shooting skills were already second to none in the organisation. The kid was talented and had great potential, and he had his whole life ahead of him to do good if he was saved now. It was partially for that reason that Phil had requested a meeting with Fury as soon as he'd stepped off the plane once they were back in New York.

He'd eventually been able to talk Fury around to agreeing to let Phil at least try to recruit Barton into the organisation, and Fury had even agreed to back him up and deal with the higher-ups if he succeeded. Phil was immensely grateful to Fury for that as it wouldn't be easy given Hawkeye was a marked man. The government would likely be furious. Scratch that, _several_ governments would be furious, not to mention the World Security Council. Coulson had had to play all the cards with Fury, but the end result had been well worth it.

Now he just had one small problem left. Actually, on second thoughts it was more of a mountain of a problem. Barton had gone-to-ground after Tokyo and hadn't been seen since. He'd vanished off the radar completely, just like that. Before Phil could put his plan for an offer of recruitment into effect he had to first find the marksman. From previous experience Phil knew it wouldn't be easy.

Fortunately he had one clue as to where he might be, whether it was actually any help Phil wasn't sure but it was the best lead he had. While they were still studying the arrows before finding the fingerprints on them Phil and Amy had identified where they had originally been bought. Paris, or more specifically from one of three stores in Paris who all sold arrows like them. They were a well known French brand of hunting arrow that boasted as being the best there was in terms of quality. Given that the arrows had also being found in Paris Phil thought it was as good a place to start looking for the assassin as any.

He'd given the matter some thought and in the end decided he would be better able to track Hawkeye if he set up a base in Europe, as that seemed to be where a large part of his work was carried out. From what Phil had been able to find out about his attributed hits Europe and Asia seemed to be Barton's main territory of operation, Phil wasn't that surprised he seemed to steer clear of the Middle East. From the man's military file it was clear that Barton didn't have good memories of that place and though the military thought him dead there was always the chance of being found out and hunted down if he turned up in their territory.

So, Phil had ended up travelling solo to Paris a little over a week after getting back from Tokyo and talking with Fury. Paris had a nice safe house he could use while he conducted his search which would make life somewhat easier for him and he was hoping he'd have better luck finding Hawkeye from here as the camera surveillance program hadn't picked up anything since Tokyo; Barton was damn good at staying invisible. Phil had already decided he would have to resort to more old fashioned methods once he was established in Paris.

There had been no more reports, official or unofficial, of assassinations using arrows since Tokyo so it appeared the Hawk was taking time off. Or had been killed, thought that possibility didn't deter Phil. He had the slightly modified and digitally aged photograph from Barton's service file and intended to put it to good use.

After finding out which shop Barton bought his arrows at and confirming it was indeed him thanks to the photograph Phil decided he had to narrow down his search area, a meeting with the police station that had provided the arrows a few months back and he soon knew the exact location where they'd been found. Phil could work with that.

He knew that Barton would likely avoid the flashy part of the city and go where the natives lived if he did have a safe house in Paris (which seemed quite likely given the evidence) because that's what you did when you wanted to blend in, everyone in this profession knew you didn't draw attention to yourself if you wanted to live. With this in mind Phil resorted to old fashioned methods of investigation and started walking the surrounding streets working his way away from that area, showing the photo to cafe workers, post offices employees and people at their market stalls, anyone who he thought might recognise the man on it or be able to give him a lead. Three weeks into the investigation and he still had zero results. It was disheartening but Phil doggedly pressed on.

* * *

He was half way through his fourth week before he got anything. Phil had reached a brighter, more cheerful part of town that was way off the beaten track, there were virtually no tourists in sight and the atmosphere was very friendly. The lead came from a nice little coffee shop located on one of the side streets. When he showed the picture to a waitress, explaining that he was a relative and Phil wanted to find him because of a death in the family, instead of shaking her head she examined the photo closely and then began nodding excitedly.

"Oui, oui, je le connais. Il vient souvent ici pour le café. Nous faisons le meilleur café à Paris, vous savez." ( _Yes, yes, I know him. He comes here often for coffee. We do make the best coffee in Paris you know_ )

Phil suddenly felt very hopeful.

"Je suis sûr que vous faites. Vous arrive de savoir où je peux le trouver?" ( _I'm sure you do. Do you happen to know where I can find him?_ )

She shook her head negatively as she continued to talk, gesturing with her hands the whole time like French people did.

"Non, je ne sais pas où il habite, juste qu'il vient ici souvent pour le café. Je n' pas vu depuis plusieurs semaines maintenant." ( _No, I don't know where he lives; just that he comes here often for coffee. I haven't seen him for several weeks now.)_

Phil thanked the waitress, and after having a coffee (it _was_ very good) left the cafe. Though it was starting to get late he decided to ask around these streets a bit more to see if he could find out anything else. By the end of an hour he had a little more information on Barton.

He learnt that no one had seen him for almost four weeks. The elderly lady in the _Patisserie_ said that he was a regular customer of hers, a very nice young man with a _very_ sweet tooth, and she was sorry to hear that a relative of his had died as she wasn't aware he had any family. Would Phil like her to pass the message on next time she saw him? Phil politely declined the offer, scaring Barton off was the last thing he wanted to do.

No one, however, knew where he lived. From what Phil could find out he didn't really have any regular patterns. He turned up randomly and did his shopping in a different order every time. No one Phil spoke to knew Barton's real name, they just called him 'monsieur'.

On questioning people many were surprised that he had an American relative, they thought he was French. Coulson spoke French fluently but couldn't pass for a native, apparently Barton could. That told Coulson that Barton was very good at impersonations, as Phil knew that Barton was an American by birth. Yet his French was apparently good enough to fool the natives into believing he was French by birth. Very impressive, and yet another talent they could use. Coulson was certain now that killing Barton would be the greatest mistake SHIELD would ever make.

He still hadn't found out where Barton lived, and was feeling very frustrated but decided to call it a day. He had seen a bigger cafe not far back; it was clean and cheery so he decided to get a bite to eat before heading back to the empty safe house. Coulson settled at a table where he had a good view of the whole place including the entrance and ordered a steak before sitting back and breathing in the enticing smells waffling in from the kitchen as he lazily watched everything that happened around him.

Suddenly he stiffened, but that was the only outward reaction he showed, Coulson was too experienced an agent to make such a rooky mistake. What made him stiffen was that the object of the whole reason he was in Paris had just walked through the door. Barton. Here, _in the same cafe as Coulson_. Talk about coincidences.

Barton was wearing dark jeans and a light blue shirt with a slightly bulky looking grey vest that Phil though more than likely hid at least one weapon. His hair was longer than it had been in Tokyo and he wore dark purple sunglasses, which he removed as he entered the cafe. Otherwise he looked the same, though very nicely tanned. Phil decided to wait and follow the kid when he left, once they were out of the crowd he would hopefully be able to talk to him without causing a scene. He didn't want to injure or endanger civilians if he could avoid it and he had no idea how Barton was likely to react when confronted, it could turn into a hostage situation if he wasn't careful.

Just then the young man turned and looked straight at Coulson, who saw the recognition dawn in his target's eyes before he turned and hurried out of the place.

Cover blown, great one Phil. You've being taught not to stare at the target.

Phil silently cursed as he jumped up and ran out after him, murmuring an apology to the waitress he almost knocked over as he did so. Tearing out onto the street he saw Barton already halfway up it, and took off in pursuit. Damn it, that kid was _fast_.

As he pounded up the street after his prey dodging pedestrians Coulson thought fast. The only thing he could do right now was keep Barton in his sight and not let him get away until they got to a less crowded area where Coulson could speak to him. He would likely have to corner him, not the best idea but Phil couldn't think of another way to do it as he didn't want to injure the kid unnecessarily, he still felt slightly guilty for shooting him in Tokyo. Shooting him again, even non-lethally to slow him down, would be counterproductive to what he wanted to achieve here. But Phil had his taser with him; if he had to he could always use that though he had to be fairly close to his target for it to work.

Just then Phil saw a flash of grey and light blue disappear into a side street, and cursed under his breath again; he knew most of these alleys contained roof access ladders and if Barton got onto the roofs Phil knew he would never be able to catch him.

Phil put on an extra burst of speed to reach the entrance to the alley. Looking down it he realised that it was in fact a dead end, it was simply a space between two buildings where the rubbish bins belonging to the buildings around were located. It looked to be devoid of life, the only thing stirring was some old newspapers lying on the ground next to one of the bins. He couldn't see Barton so he started to walk into the alley, all the while listening for any sound that would tell him where the archer had gone.

* * *

Clint knew this part of town well, and knew that this alley had a roof access ladder that led onto the highest roof around here. At least it _should_ have a roof access ladder. In the time he'd been away in Budapest said ladder had disappeared which was just great. It had been old and likely taken away for maintenance, the brackets that secured it to the wall had also been taken so there was nothing for Clint to climb as the gutters were too high for him to use as a lever. He was trapped and that guy in the suit from Tokyo was closing in on him fast, likely wanting him dead.

Clint decided that he would just have to be sneaky and try to get away; if that plan failed then he would fight. If this was going to be his end he wouldn't go out lightly, why make life easy for yourself when with just a bit more effort you can make it hard? Ducking behind one of the bins he held his breath and listened hard, willing his thudding heart to be quieter, afraid it would give away his hiding place.

* * *

Phil didn't see any way out of the alley, there had obviously been a roof access ladder leading onto the roof at some point but it had been removed, probably for maintenance, which meant his target was likely hiding. Phil decided to try and talk to him without a confrontation. Stepping right into the alley to get off the busy street Phil looked up the alley before speaking English in a non-threatening voice. It would probably have freaked Barton out less to have used French but he wanted to minimise the chance of local ears prying into this conversation.

"It's okay kid, I just want to talk to you. I'm not here to kill you like everyone else who's chased you has. I might have wanted you dead in Tokyo and I know I did shoot you then but things have changed; now I have a proposition for you. Why don't you come out and we can talk about it. It's a bit hard to talk to someone when you can't see them."

Silence greeted his words, Coulson had expected that. Barton had been hounded and betrayed for years, he wasn't going to trust someone not to hurt him just because they said they wouldn't. Time to change tactics.

"Hawkeye, I know your real name is Clint Barton. I know you were a sniper in the army and somehow survived that explosion at the jail in Afghanistan. I know that you've been working as a free-lance assassin for the past eighteen months, gaining a reputation that rivals even the Black Widow. I know you're a trained and experienced killer, and yet you seem to want to run, not fight or kill, when you can. Even though I've tried to kill you before, right now that is the last thing I want to do. I'm here to offer you something that I bet no one has offered you before."

Still no answer. Coulson started walking down the alley, not pausing until he neared the first of the bins where he hesitated. He knew that Barton had to be hiding behind one of them; it was the only possible place to hide in the alley. The question was which one? Coulson though the one closest to the missing access ladder would be the best bet. He started towards it, all senses alert, making sure his footsteps could clearly be heard.

Coulson heard a slight scuffling noise directly behind him. Spinning around he saw Barton make a break for the entrance and freedom, he was a matter of a few feet away and Phil reacted on pure instinct. He lunged at the kid, his weight and the element of surprise bringing him to the ground. Barton was much smaller and skinnier than Coulson was but he was surprisingly strong and Coulson could _feel_ the flight-or-fight mindset practically radiating off him, having taken the first option away the kid would probably try to fight him now.

Barton had had the breath knocked out of him when Coulson had landed on top and taking advantage of this fact Coulson quickly handcuffed the kid before hauling him up and turning him around to face him, making sure to block the escape route as he pulled out his taser gun just to be sure Barton would listen. He didn't intend to taser the kid if he could help it but a gun was a good incentive to listen. That was the reason R&D made taser's that looked like guns, they were a standard part of an agent's outfit.

Turning his full attention to the cowering yet still defiant person standing in front of him with his hands cuffed behind his back, his mouth firmly shut and eyes blazing, (his purple sunglasses had being knocked off in the scuffle and Coulson was getting the full effect off a very angry assassin's glare) Coulson started speaking.

* * *

Clint had had all the breath knocked out of him when this guy had tackled him to the ground. Man he was good, he not only heard Clint but reacted so fast that almost before Clint realised he was on the ground he already had handcuffs on. He hated handcuffs and though they were easy to pick if you knew how he didn't think he'd get the chance to pick them this time, he didn't think this guy was the type to make that sort of mistake.

This suit then proceeded to haul him up and turn Clint around to face him, pulling a gun out of his pocket as he did so. Clint cowered slightly, he felt helpless and out of control, and bad things always happened when he wasn't in control of a situation. He response to fear had always been the same, be defiant, if they knew how scared you were that gave them an advantage. So Clint let his eyes blaze and set his mouth in a grim line, showing anger and generally being pissed off. He hadn't broken down in front of a stranger for over ten years and wasn't going to start now. Who did this guy think he was anyway?

"I presume you heard what I said before so you know why I'm here. Barton, my name is Phil Coulson. I am an agent in an independent sector of the American government that you probably haven't heard spoken of before. It's called the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."

Clint was practically vibrating with anger and though shutting up and listening to this guy was probably a very smart idea Clint wasn't exactly renowned for following smart ideas.

"Great, you do super secret stuff in a super secret agency. What a name, how do you fit it on a business card?"

"It's not easy but we manage."

Coulson's blasé tone didn't impress the assassin who didn't hesitate in telling him as much.

"You trying to impress me? Hate to tell you but it ain't workin' sunshine."

Coulson didn't bat an eyelid at the insult or the traces of a Midwestern accent that crept into Clint's words; he simply ignored it like Clint hadn't said anything and kept going.

"This organisation does things most people wouldn't dream were even possible. Espionage, assassinations, Intel gathering, these are just a few of the things we do."

"Why should I be interested in what some random guys in a super secret spy agency do?"

"You are interested because I am offering you a position as an agent with us."

Clint couldn't help it, he laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, more like a somewhat broken and desperate howl but he seriously couldn't care a less at this point.

"Are you nuts? You do know who you are talking to right? Why would you want me?"

"I am well aware who I am talking to." Coulson looked perfectly calm and completely unruffled, unlike Clint. "I also am not finished speaking to you yet so it would be nice if you would stop interrupting and just listen."

"I don't listen to people; it's a part of my irresistible charm."

Coulson chose to ignore that comment and ploughed on.

"The reason we want you? Well for a start you have many unique skills and if you agree to join us we can get you training to improve them even more. We'd protect you as well, we protect our own and I know Hawkeye has many enemies."

That was the understatement of the century as far as Clint was concerned; it was easier to name those who didn't want him dead. The answer was zero, maybe with the exception of Natasha. Clint thought it slightly amusing that they'd never actively tried to kill each other, even living together for a week they'd managed to co-exist quite peacefully for two world class assassins before splitting up and going their separate ways two days ago.

"What else do I get besides training and people not actively trying to kill me?"

"A place to live and a steady pay check. Backup and support on missions, travelling all over the world without having to pay for it, learning to fly quinjets, I can promise if you join that your life will never be boring."

"So what would I be doing exactly?"

Phil knew this was the make or break moment, so he didn't sugar-coat his next words, if this had a remote chance of working he had to be honest with Barton.

"You'll be eliminating traitors, spies, assassins, drug lords, human traffickers and people like them, the real scum of the earth. The kind of people who make the world a bad place and make people suffer."

"People like me then? That's ironic."

Phil felt a mixture of emotions roll over him at the kids' words. Of course he would see himself in the same light as those sorts of people, until a month ago Phil had seen him in that light as well.

The difference was Phil believed Barton could change who he was and deserved the chance to at least try.

"No, they aren't like you Barton. I've looked into your kills and not once could I find an instant that the marks suffered more than they had to, I also couldn't find one account where children were involved; you don't seem to kill children which for a renowned master assassin is rather unusual. It's obviously not all about the money."

Phil knew he'd struck a sore point with the assassin when he didn't immediately get a smart comeback and Barton lowered his eyes for a second. Having found an obvious weak point in the assassin's steel façade Phil relentlessly pressed on.

"The kind of people you'll be eliminating torture innocents, including children, for fun. And those that aren't, political leaders and the like; you'll always be given all the information we possess on the target before you accept the job and you have the right to refuse if you don't feel the kill order was justified. There will be no repercussions if you decide not to kill someone for a legitimate reason. But let me tell you that doesn't happen very often, the people we take down generally aren't saints."

"People can actually refuse to kill someone without consequences?"

"Yes, it doesn't happen very often but it isn't unheard off."

"What happens to the target if someone refuses to kill them?"

"The kill order is revaluated by several people and depending on the reasons for refusal is either handed to another agent or modified. In extreme cases it can even be dropped completely."

"Really?"

The level of sarcasm in the kids' voice made it clear he didn't believe much if any of what Coulson was saying. It was discouraging but not entirely unexpected.

"Barton, I have told you everything you wanted to know and haven't lied to you. You can choose not to come with me but if you don't want to die I'd suggest accepting my offer. I think it is likely to be the best one you will ever receive."

Unfortunately it said a lot for Clint's life in that this _was_ probably the best offer he would ever receive.

Still, Clint glowered at Coulson. Seriously, how stupid did this suit-guy think he was? He didn't believe a word of what Coulson had said, it sounded to good and easy to be true, he'd been lied to and manipulated his whole life so why should he believe some random guy now? Especially when random guy had him handcuffed and was pointing a gun at him? And had shot him just a few short weeks ago?

There was something about Coulson, however, that pulled Clint up a bit. He seemed to be genuine, unlike the lowlife scumbags Clint had dealt with before when that other organisation he couldn't remember the name of had tried to recruit him. Those guys hadn't had the open, honest and calm feeling that Coulson radiated.

Everything about this man screamed that he could trust him, but Clint wasn't going to be fooled by that kind of exterior. Trust no one but yourself and no one can hurt you was his motto, he'd learned the hard way people could not be trusted when he was still a little kid. Clint stared hard at the man's face and into his eyes, trying to read him and work out what his real play was.

* * *

Phil held the assassins gaze and waited. He had to work hard not to look away; those blue eyes were _extremely_ intense, it felt like a bird of prey was looking into his very soul. He knew the kid was looking for something, so Phil tried to be as open and honest as he could, for this to work the kid had to trust him and come in of his own free will.

That gave Phil an idea, one that he knew would make Fury mad, but Phil felt that it might be a better way of getting through the layers of metaphoric steel that Barton had surrounded himself with. Having nothing more to say Phil waited for the kid to say something.

Instead of saying anything Barton suddenly twisted out of Phil's grasp and kicked him in the leg before making a break for the alley opening, hands still cuffed behind his back. Phil gasped from the flaring pain and reacted on pure instinct, pointing the gun he was still holding at Barton's back he pulled the trigger. The kid went down with a gasp of pain and lay on the ground twitching from the shock of the electricity. Phil knew he was still conscious enough to talk, the voltage hadn't been _that_ strong, and when Phil rolled him over Barton was glaring at him with pure hatred and a glare that almost rivalled Fury's.

"I would recommend against walking away when I'm trying to have a conversation with you Barton. That kind of thing tends to piss me off and me being pissed off never ends well for whoever has pissed me off. Ready to talk now?"

After several minutes of patient waiting on Phil's part, Barton finally spoke up from where he was lying on the ground. He didn't attempt to get up again though he probably could have moved now, and for that Phil was grateful. He didn't want to have to tase him again, it was bad enough he'd done it once.

"Why would you want me seriously? And how do you know about me, how do you even know my name? According to the official records I'm dead. How'd you find me?"

Phil smiled the most honest smile he could at the sullen person lying on the ground.

"I'm not lying, you have skills we would like to have on our side. I found out your identity through some of your arrows, they had fingerprints on them. The prints led me to your military file, and then facial recognition software led me to Tokyo, where after seeing your skills first hand I started to have doubts that killing you was the best thing to do. I then traced you to Paris through the barcode on your arrows. Whatever you might think Barton I want to tell you that it's not too late for you to start over, using your skills for good this time. But the choice to come with me has to be yours."

Their eyes bored into each other for several tense seconds. Barton looked away first.

"So you just want to use me like everyone else does. I've said no to them, why on earth would I say yes to you? If I'm just going to be doing the same thing as what I do now what's the point of going with you? I'm sure I make more money now and I'm not shackled to anyone, I'm free to do whatever I want whenever I want to do it."

Phil had to struggle to keep his mask in place at that, of course the kid thought they just wanted to use him for his skills, he was partially right. But Phil wanted Barton on their side for more than just that. He could clearly see the kid had never really had a choice about what he did; he'd just did whatever he had to do to survive. Phil wanted to be the one to give him the choice he'd likely never had before.

That choice wasn't going to happen while he had him handcuffed and lying tased on the ground in front of him though. Phil just had one more thing to say to the boy before he had to make his final decision.

"Barton, I won't lie to you; we do want your skills on our side. But the reason I'm offering this to you is because I know that you don't enjoy what you do, in fact you hate it but see no way out. I'm offering you a way out, a chance to right all the wrongs, a way to balance your ledger. You'll always be given a reason for a hit; you'd never go in blind, you'd always know exactly why you are doing it. You'll have a permanent place to live that is safe, plenty of food, a regular salary, training to improve the amazing skills you already possess, amazing new toys from our R&D department to play with and the chance to make a positive difference to the world. In return you'll be loyal to us. I know that you've never been given a choice about what you want to do with your life, I doubt you entered the assassin game by choice."

Something briefly flashed across the kids eyes as he said those last words, Phil couldn't be sure he'd even seen it but pressed on anyway.

"I'm offering you a choice, and I can't guarantee that anyone will ever again. If you refuse this offer, which is entirely within your rights to do, the next person to come after you will likely take you out without second thoughts."

The kid's eyes wore a 'how stupid do you think I am?' look that made Coulson worry he'd said the wrong thing. Then Barton spoke.

"And if I say no now you'll kill me I suppose? It's not like you're going to just let me walk away from this. This is blackmail. I see it all now; I either come with you and join your organisation or die here with a bullet in my brain? That's really giving me a choice, especially when I can hardly move."

Phil inwardly sighed. He knew Fury would live up to his name regarding what Phil was about to do, but Phil couldn't bring himself to kill this broken and abused kid and he knew this was the only way he could truly have the choice Phil had talked about.

Taking out the key to the handcuffs Phil removed them and put them into his pocket. Barton eyed him suspiciously but didn't move as Phil put his taser away before reaching into another pocket and pulling out a business card.

"You have a good point. Here," Phil leaned down and placed the card on the ground in front of Barton, who was starting to regain some mobility. "You have a week to call this number. If by the end of a week I hear nothing, you best understand most of the agents in the US government will be after you, and will kill you on sight. That enough of a choice for you?"

The kid was looking at him with confusion evident in every line of his body. To convince the kid he was serious Coulson took a few steps back holding out his hands where Barton could easily see them. However, even though he could have moved the kid didn't, instead he looked at Phil with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"Are you for real?"

Coulson couldn't help smirking a bit at that.

"Yep, I am, a week Barton. This offer is limited to a week starting now; you have until the exact same time next week to call me if you want to take me up on my offer. I just hope you're convinced that whatever you decide to do is the right thing."

Coulson turned and walked out of the alley then, not looking back once. He knew Fury would go ballistic about this but he didn't care. The kid had to make the choice himself with no pressure or none of this would work. Coulson had been able to read in his eyes that he had listened and was actually thinking about what Phil had said, in spite of his attitude he was taking it to heart and Phil didn't think the tasing had anything to do with that either. Phil just _knew_ he'd being right about Clint and was confident that he would hear from him before the week was up.

* * *

"You did **WHAT**?"

Phil winced as he held the phone slightly away from his ear. Fury was loud when he was angry.

"I gave him a week Director. He has a week to contact me and accept my offer to come in and if he doesn't he knows the consequences."

"And _you'll_ know the consequences as well when he doesn't ring Phil. You disobeyed a direct order from me and let a crazy killer go when you had him handcuffed in front of you after months of searching for him. My orders if I remember correctly where to either recruit him or take him out, not let him go. I have a good mind to ship you off to Siberia right now."

"Your orders didn't specify a time limit on the recruitment period sir. Give me a week; I just know that I'm not wrong about Barton. I could see it in his eyes; he wasn't going to join us any other way. This way the choice will be his own, he'll come to us because he wants to. Please trust me on this one Nick."

Phil was playing the trump card and after he heard a long sigh from the other end of the phone knew it was working.

"I **do** trust you Phil, which is why you're not already in Siberia. But you're currently treading on very thin ice. If this goes sideways it's all on you, when the council finds out there is nothing I can do to protect you. You understand that?"

"Perfectly sir, but I wouldn't underestimate Barton if I were you. The kid wants a way out."

"We'll see. Talk to you in a week."

Phil disconnected the line and sighed deeply. Fury was furious, pun intended, just as Phil had known he would be. Phil knew his whole career was riding on this, he was sure he was right about Barton but after his conversation with Fury he really hoped he _was_ right. His neck was on the line over this.

There was more to the reason he'd done what he had, much more, and that reason was simple. Phil could see himself in Barton. More correctly, he could see what might have happened to him if it hadn't been for Nick taking a chance with a troublesome sniper all those years ago.

Nick had taken on what many believed to be a lost cause and not worth the hassle of obedience training with Coulson, now Coulson wanted to give the same chance he'd had to someone else. Especially as this someone else was as lost and broken as Clint Barton, with a ledger that was over a mile long and stained red with blood. He just hoped the kid wasn't broken beyond repair, but Phil didn't think he was. If he wasn't strong he wouldn't have survived this long. That knowledge didn't make what Phil had done any easier, and if he didn't hear anything from Barton by next week Phil was well aware he was toast.

Phil knew the next seven days would likely be the most trying time of his life.

* * *

**End of chapter 9**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yah, they finally meet! It only took nine out of ten chapters to make it happen. I hope that you will all tune in tomorrow for our epic conclusion to Shades of Red and Black;
> 
> Chapter 10: A Second Chance
> 
> I will also be releasing the title and summary of the sequel and a couple of other stories that are in the works tomorrow at the end of the last chapter. 
> 
> Would love to know your thoughts on this chapter and hear your speculations on what you think is going to happen tomorrow! Who knows, it might even give me ideas for the future...


	10. A Second Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Marvel. I just have fun with their characters.
> 
> A/N
> 
> This chapter was once again beta-ed by jaguarspot who as usual did a fantastic job. I take full responsibility for any remaining mistakes.
> 
> And so we arrive at the finale to Shades of Red and Black. I hope you enjoy the conclusion to Clint's journey, or at least to this stage of it.

* * *

If you could get up the courage to begin, you have the courage to succeed. _David Viscott_

* * *

**Chapter 10: A Second Chance**

Coulson was both glad and terrified that the week he had given Barton to make up his mind about whether or not he wanted to join SHIELD was almost up. Glad because it would be over, terrified because he'd heard nothing from Barton thus far. Phil had been sure the kid would ring him within a couple of days; he hadn't heard as much as a squeak from him. Time was running out; there were less than 36 hours remaining to the deadline Phil had given him. Phil didn't understand how this could have happened; he just _knew_ Barton that wanted out of his current profession, so why hadn't he rung yet? This question plagued Phil as the deadline drew steadily nearer.

* * *

Phil gazed expectantly at his phone as he taped his fingers nervously on the tabletop. There was one minute left until the deadline.

_Tick, tick, tick._

Thirty seconds, Phil's leg began moving of its own volition.

_Tick, tick._

Twenty seconds.

_Tick, tick._

Ten seconds, Phil clenched his teeth.

_Tick, tick._

Five seconds.

One second.

Phil had a hard time swallowing as his mouth was suddenly very dry. How had this happened? He couldn't accept that he'd been wrong about Barton; he didn't understand _how_ he could have been wrong about Barton. Fury would ship Coulson off to the cold wastelands of Alaska or Siberia for this, likely for the rest of his natural life. Phil sat there in shocked silence, trying to sort out what he was going to do next.

The sudden loud ring of his phone made him jump. Phil grabbed it and answered with 'Coulson'. A familiar voice answered him.

"Well Coulson, are you right or was I right?"

Great, just what he didn't need.

Phil desperately tried to sort things out in his head. After about a minute of silence he finally managed to speak in a fairly steady voice.

"Well sir, I...I...I..."

"Was wrong." Fury sounded triumphant, the bastard. "You should have listened to me Agent; I knew this scheme of yours wouldn't work. There is a reason this organisation has a Director, it's so everyone doesn't mess up doing things their own way, so things like this don't happen. I expect you back at base within twelve hours. Report to my office as soon as you land, I'll have a few things to say to you."

Phil cringed inwardly at how Fury said those last words. They didn't bide well for him.

"Yes sir, of course sir, see you then sir."

Fury disconnected the line without a goodbye, leaving Phil a slight mess. He took a deep breath, let it out, and took another as he tried to get his emotions under control again. He'd known at the time what he was risking with giving Barton time to make up his mind but he seriously hadn't expected this to happen. He didn't understand how he could have been so wrong about someone, especially after everything he'd seen in the kid. He'd been so sure he wanted an out and that knowledge had apparently blinded sided him to the kid's true intentions and nature. It would seem he didn't want a change of profession despite all the available evidence pointing to the contrary and for Phil this was a bitter pill to swallow.

It was with a very heavy heart that Phil reluctantly obeyed the Director's orders.

* * *

Phil stepped off the jet onto the runway of SHIELD's New York base and walked inside the building, heading towards Fury's office without breaking stride. Best get this over with ASAP. Phil knocked on the door and even though he knew that Fury could see him through the one way glass he was made to wait for about twenty seconds, growing more agitated with each passing second. He almost jumped a mile into the air when a sharp 'enter' finally greeted him and he just knew Fury had done it on purpose. Mustering all the courage he possessed to face the wrath of Fury, Coulson opened the door and walked in.

Fury was sitting at his desk, looking more sinister than usual, if that was even possible. He was reading some report, which he didn't put down until several tense minutes had passed. He then finally looked up at Phil who was standing nervously at attention and trying not to show that the look Fury was giving him was freaking him out.

"You're here."

It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes Director, sir. You asked for me to report when I landed. Sir."

Phil's mouth always ran away with him when he was nervous enough and the Director's glare was enough to intimidate the shit out of him.

"I did."

Fury continued looking across the table at Phil who did his best not to squirm or show he was affected by being under the scrutiny of what was probably the world's greatest spy master.

"I want a debrief on the situation from Paris, a thorough one. I want to know what exactly happened out there and why you acted the way you did against my explicit orders. What you did was insane and there better have been a really good reason for it if you don't want to be condemned to our base in the cold, empty wastelands of Alaska for life Coulson."

Phil licked his lips as he tried to think of where to start and how much to tell Fury about his thoughts and feelings regarding eliminating Hawkeye. Sitting down opposite his boss he took a deep silent breath to try and calm his pounding heart and to give him a chance to muster his thoughts together before he gave his report.

"Well sir..."

* * *

An hour later Fury knew what had happened in that alley and had a fair idea why Phil had pushed for the kid not to be killed in the first place. At least he knew what Phil had told him, he had a feeling there was something Phil was keeping from him but didn't push him just now. Looking at Phil sitting across from him Nick was sorry it had come to this with his good friend, he really hadn't stopped to think things through, but then that was simply Phil's way.

Phil would get an idea in his head and let it run away with him. Or he ran away with it in some cases. Fury was normally inclined to let Phil run with his ideas because they usually worked out in the end. This time that wasn't quite the case.

Coulson had recruited or 'picked up strays' in slightly unusual or unorthodox ways before, but this time was different. It was a dangerous international master assassin who had been on the line and had gotten away from them due to Phil's actions when they'd finally caught him after months of searching. Fury looked at Phil who looked fairly cool and collected on the outside; external looks could be deceiving however and Nick could only image how his friend was feeling.

Deciding that he'd punished Coulson enough for now Fury knew it was time to put him out of his misery. Rising to his feet he faced Phil and looked him in the eye, ignoring the trepidation he saw there. The man should be worried after all, Fury was the boss and Phil had wilfully disobeyed orders and managed to really screw this one up. Fury hadn't had to deal with a mess this big and complicated in years.

"Agent Coulson, what you did was wrong and irresponsible. You disobeyed a direct order from the head of this organisation after the original order had already been modified as per your request and you deserve to be punished for that alone. However, there is one thing you should know first."

Coulson gazed straight ahead without any emotion showing on his face as he waited for the verdict. Fury, however, had his own agenda up his sleeve.

"Yesterday, not long after getting off the phone to you actually, I received a phone call. An ex-army sniper called Clinton Barton who was thought to be dead is currently being held in the United States Disciplinary Barracks at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. He's been in federal custody for going on four days."

Phil's head snapped up to look Fury in the eye.

"WHAT?!"

"The sniper Clint Barton, aka the assassin Hawkeye if your research is reliable, is in federal custody. He's there because of the court martial issued while he was still in the military, as far as I am aware they don't actually know that he is also the assassin Hawkeye as he hasn't said a word about it to anyone and Hawkeye is a ghost living in the shadows of the underworld."

Phil looked, well, Fury didn't have a word to describe how Phil looked right now. Incredulous, excited, angry? All of the above? None of the above? Phil was likely completely pissed off about Nick intentionally keeping this from him and letting him stew for the last twelve or so hours, but Fury had really wanted Phil to understand the consequences of his actions.

"How long did you say he's been in custody for?"

Trust Phil to forget everything else Fury had just told him and concentrate on what he deemed important.

"Five days all together, he was somehow caught in Spain and once they found out about the court martial they sent him back here to stand trial in America. He's been in the US for about four days. We are possibly the only people who know his true identity as the international assassin Hawkeye, he didn't have a bow with him when he was arrested and nothing has been said by anyone since. Still, due to the military incident he is either facing life-long imprisonment or death seeing as he survived that explosion and deserted the army. Because of that there are now multiple charges against him."

Phil did some quick calculations in his head.

"That's why he hasn't rung me; he probably hasn't had a chance. I have to see him, do you have a car I can use boss?"

Fury had expected this and had planned accordingly.

"Phil, you're not driving all the way to Kansas, it's an almost twenty-four hour drive and you are in no shape to do that after everything that has happened."

"I have to see him before they do anything to him or make any decisions Nick! I..."

Fury held up his hand and waited until Phil finally fell silent, his eyes trained on Nick.

"I understand what you want to do Phil and I completely agree with you. That's why I have a jet out back all prepped and waiting. Just let me get my coat and we can be on our way."

Phil blinked twice, his mouth dropping open.

"Sir?"

"I'm coming with you Phil; I want to meet this kid who has had such an effect on you. I want to know just why my best Agent refused a kill order more than once, broke all the rules in the book and disobeyed my direct orders multiple times to give this one assassin a choice about what he does with his life."

* * *

It wasn't until they were on the plane and halfway to Kansas that Phil had an alarming thought.

"Does the council know about all this?"

Fury shook his head from where he sat in the pilot seat, (we said you needed two eyes to fly a plane?) not surprised that had Phil worried. Barton was, after all, a world class assassin who they had specifically been told to neutralize by the powers-that-be. It didn't matter that the military was unaware of his true identity as Hawkeye, what mattered was that SHIELD had been told to eliminate him and they hadn't followed through on that particular order.

"I will inform them after we have the kid on board, providing he comes with us. It will be easier for us if he's already in the organisation when they find out the truth. It will be a lot harder for them to chuck him out than refuse to let him join in the first place."

Phil just shook his head from where he sat in the co-pilots seat.

"The great Nicholas Fury, disobeying orders and lying to his superiors. You really are a bad influence on the rest of us."

Fury glared at his right hand man and good eye who added a belated 'sir' to his last statement.

"Yes I am disobeying orders, but it's for a good reason; there are no emotions involved with this. Also Coulson, when we arrive at the prison we have to be careful what we say where we can be overheard because as far as I am aware no one actually knows that Barton is the assassin Hawkeye and I would like it to stay that way for now. It will make things much easier for us."

Phil nodded immediately.

"Okay, I won't say anything about it to anyone, including you. What about when we're asked why we are interested in him? 'Cause people will ask."

"We want him for his extraordinary sniper skills; there is no need to say anything about him being an assassin. It's not like this is the first time we've recruited someone with a less than stellar past out of prison."

"No, I guess it's not."

There was silence for a while before Phil spoke again.

"Why have you changed your mind about Barton Nick? I thought you were just humouring me before but this goes way beyond that. What happened why I was away to make you change your mind?"

"What really happened in Tokyo that caused you to change your mind regarding the original kill order Phil?"

Phil didn't answer the question and after a good amount of time had passed Fury nodded.

"There you go. I have my reasons for doing this and I'm not sharing them with anyone. I just hope that this trip isn't a colossal waste of time and resources."

* * *

_Almost four hours later._

Fury and Coulson were led to an interrogation room located deep inside the prison complex. It contained one table bolted to the ground, two chairs, one of those bolted to the ground and having handcuffs attached to the arms, and a concrete floor that had seen better days. There were two doors; one was located behind the interrogation chair so prisoners wouldn't know who entered the room without turning around, an action made virtually impossible by the cuffs and high back of the chair. The other one was located in the opposite wall and in darkness so whoever was sitting in the chair would only see the silhouette of a person at first. The remaining walls comprised of one way mirrors. The table and interrogation chair were brightly lit with yellow light, leaving the other chair in shadows. It was definitely designed to be intimidating but after having been in SHIELD's interrogation rooms this one managed to look woefully inadequate in that department.

Nick and Phil waited patiently outside the chamber while the guards left to get Barton from his holding cell, they were keeping him locked up as per higher orders and had been interrogating him intensely ever since he'd been brought in but he apparently wasn't talking to them beyond giving a lot of snark. That piece of information didn't surprise either man in the slightest, especially Phil who after all had experienced firsthand how sarcastic and annoying the young man could be.

As they waited for the guards to return Phil went over their plan again in his head, they had formulated a plan of attack while on the plane. Fury would interview Barton first, while Phil stayed outside out of the way and observed the proceedings. Phil wasn't very happy about that but Fury wanted to assess Barton himself, without the kid knowing he was Coulson's boss. That made sense so Phil had finally conceded to waiting outside until Fury gave him the okay to enter.

After Fury was satisfied with the kid Phil would enter and then they would both offer him a place in SHIELD. If he accepted Fury was confident they'd be allowed to take him back with them today, if he refused to go with them then his fate was out of their hands.

Just then the guards entered the interrogation room with Barton in tow.

Fury took a good look at the kid as the guards forced him to sit down in the interrogation chair and snapped the handcuffs around his wrists roughly, despite the fact he didn't seem to be resisting them. Fury was surprised and slightly disturbed by what he saw, Barton looked nothing like a deadly assassin or even a too cocky sniper; he looked like a broken teenager. Dammit, that kid sitting hand-cuffed to the chair was too heartbreakingly young to be in this sort of mess.

After securing Barton the guards exited the room and the chief told them they could go in any time they wanted. Fury nodded and dismissed them with a wave of his hand; he wanted to observe Barton for a few more moments before he made his presence known to the boy.

Phil was shocked at the state Barton was in. Just a week ago he had been all ready to fight Phil and had refused to show fear even when he had him cornered, handcuffed and completely at his mercy. Phil saw none of that spirit and stubbornness now. What he saw was a broken, insecure, scared and abused kid, one who seemed to have given up on life.

He sat in the chair, shoulders hunched defensively and head bowed slightly. The orange prison scrubs he was wearing were a touch to big and combined with his long and slightly messy blonde hair only served to make him look about fifteen years old. There was a hopeless air about him and he looked like he couldn't care a less what happened to him, but it was a front; the uncertainty and fear evident in his body language was very clear to the two silent spectators. Fury brought Phil back to the present by nudging his arm. Phil nodded in silent understanding and watched as Fury walked towards the door.

* * *

Clint started when the door across from him suddenly opened; for a moment he was unable to see who had entered due to the placement of the lights. All he could tell was it was one person and he almost laughed. They seriously weren't going to play good cop/bad cop again where they? Clint knew there were two guys out there; he'd seen them through the glass when the guards had brought him in. This whole setup was like something out of those cop drama's he'd never bothered to watch but Natasha had seemed to like, and even they pulled it off better than these guys did. Then the person came into his sight properly and sat down in the chair opposite him and Clint got a good look at his latest interrogator.

He instantly knew that he had never seen this man before. Ever since arriving here the same people had questioned him multiple times but this guy hadn't been among them, Clint hadn't even seen him watching through the glass. He had dark skin and was sitting comfortably in the second chair as he looked Clint up and down with a calculating eye. Literally eye, singular; the guy had only one eye, the other one was covered with a black leather eye patch which made Clint wonder what had happened to it and why he didn't just get a fake. But then maybe he was just into pirates. Clint would have snickered at the thought if he hadn't been in such dire circumstances.

There was something about this guy that unsettled Clint more so than anyone else had. Mr. Pirate Guy wasn't anything like all the other types who had questioned Clint over the past few days, this guy was heaps creepier and gave off an air of being menacing and deadly and being able to kill you faster than you could blink with whatever lay at hand. There was something else about him that Clint couldn't place, something that made Clint regard him in a slightly different way to any of the other types who he'd met over the last few days. One thing he was sure of was that this man was not your typical military grunt; he gave off too similar a vibe to Natasha, who was a trained spy, for that.

Clint stared at the dark guy with an irritating smirk on his face as he waited for him to say something. Clint thought he'd learnt a fair bit about interrogation techniques that the so called good guys used over the last few days and found it somewhat amusing to see how far he could wind his interrogators up before they snapped. Especially when it became obvious they were under orders not to kill him and weren't allowed to torture him no matter the amount of snark he gave them, all he got for it was slaps and a lot of foul language that was enough to make sailors blush. Clint didn't care; he'd heard worse and been called far worse names in his life than anything these guys could come up with. It wasn't like he was getting out of here anyway so he might as well have some fun while he still had the chance. He knew it would be taken away from him soon enough.

* * *

Fury was slightly disturbed when he was able to get a good look at Barton. The kid's face was a mass of still-purple bruises and small grazes and cuts; he also sported a particularly nasty cut on the side of his head that looked like it could be starting an infection, it was stitched up and surrounded by the worst bruise of them all. And the nasty looking scar that was clearly visible on the neck line of the orange jumpsuit he was wearing did nothing to placate Fury either, even though that one was obviously old. Fury didn't let on that what he saw disturbed him; he simply sat there and stared at the kid.

Barton stared right back at Fury, eyeing him up and down with something of a challenge in his eyes. Fury felt the piercing gaze scrutinising him but gave no outward sign he did. If the kid was trying to intimidate him he was going to be disappointed; Fury could not be intimidated. Fury let the silence stretch on for a while until the kid was finally starting to look uncomfortable before he spoke, choosing his words carefully.

"Mr Clinton Barton, I am Colonel Nicholas Fury. I know all about you, I know about your superb marksmanship skills and how you never miss what you aim at, I know that you've managed to stay under the radar of every government agency and organisation for almost two years. I know all about that little incident in Afghanistan that landed you here, I even know that you're not as old as your military file says. You're not even twenty yet. I bet you really don't want the army to find that one out."

That produced a reaction out of the teen. A look of pure panic flashed across his eyes and his whole body stiffened. Fury knew not even Phil had that information and he wasn't about to tell him how he'd obtained it. Phil had done a good job with his research, but Fury had more contacts and reach then Phil did and had had over a month to put it to good use. Watching the teen narrow his eyes at him in anger Fury decided it was time to get to the serious stuff with this kid.

"Still, given your other crimes, whether you're twenty-one and four months, or nineteen and eleven, is now irrelevant. The courts certainly won't care. So let's get down to business, shall we?"

The only response he received was an angry look and given who Fury regularly dealt with Barton's glare didn't even make him uncomfortable. Fury watched Barton carefully as he dropped the bombshell on him.

"I also happen to know that you haven't spent the last two years idling away your time. No, you've been rather busy travelling all over the world letting people pay you to kill other people, haven't you Hawkeye?"

The pure panic on the kid's face that he couldn't hide was the first real facial expression he'd shown to Fury. Without giving him time to process Fury ploughed on.

"Still, I suppose that doesn't matter now, does it? You've practically got a death sentence on your head anyway though I think that they are more likely to favour life-long imprisonment. If it becomes known just who you are your death would be guaranteed don't you think? I can't say I blame you for not saying anything. Wouldn't want to give people more fuel to light the fire of evidence currently burning against you."

Fury stood up, leaning over the table in a slightly threatening way as he did just to see what the kid would do and how he would handle pressure and respond to being threatened. He saw Barton suppress an urge to cower away, instead putting on a defiant if somewhat scared expression and holding his ground as he refused to back away. Interesting, the kid wasn't going to admit weakness; whether that was a good or a bad thing only time would tell.

Fury walked around Barton's chair slowly and stopped directly behind the chair where he couldn't be seen and started talking again. He knew Barton wasn't going to speak to him just yet; no, he obviously used silence as a defence mechanism when he knew he couldn't win the argument and would need very good incentive to speak after what Fury had just said to him. Fury was confident he could give him the incentive he needed to talk very soon.

"How does one never miss what they aim at? Our best marksmen miss sometimes, they are only human after all and human's make mistakes. Even the best snipers in the world occasionally miss; they can't help it, it just happens. How come you don't ever miss? How is that possible?"

He still received no reply. Fury walked back around into Barton's line of vision and looked him in the eye. He saw anger, pure panic, fear and more than a hint of confusion in them. All of which were perfectly natural responses to what he was putting the kid through, he must be completely stressed out, but Fury wasn't finished yet. Fury really wanted to make this kid talk to him, silence was getting them nowhere and he wanted a verbal response of any kind out of the kid who had so far not said a word. Not removing his gaze he asked a direct question that was a bit more neutral but likely a touchy subject for Barton given his current situation.

"How did they manage to catch you? You've avoided capture and detection for almost two years, driving my people insane with the fact that you are, to all intents and purposes, a ghost. I'm curious as to how some random cops in Spain got hold of you and managed to arrest you when my own agents had a really hard time even _finding_ you?"

Barton was the first to break eye contact and look away. Fury waited to see what would happen next, but it wasn't anything like what he'd expected. The kid suddenly raised his head and gave Fury a glare that almost made him take a step back, it was that intense. Angrily yanking against the restraints seemingly not caring if he injured himself in the process Barton lashed out with enough venom to rival a cobra's strike.

"Who exactly are you and what do you want with me? Your types don't just come to torture me, no; you always have an agenda, an ulterior motive to everything you do. And who is with you? It's kind of stupid to stand behind a one way mirror when I can see straight through them, just so you know the good cop/bad cop routine is getting really old. Just to prove I can see through them he's standing on the right side mirror towards the corner closest to the door behind me with his arms crossed, tapping the fingers of his left hand on his right bicep. I see like a hawk, _that's_ why I _don't_ miss. I don't miss _anything_ ; I have _never_ missed anything that I've aimed at. And the name is CLINT, not Clinton so don't you dare call me that again!"

Fury almost blinked in surprise at the angry outburst from the young assassin but expertly schooled his features, years of experience preventing any emotion from showing on his face or in his body language. He looked hard at Barton instead, the kid looked right back at him with a challenging expression; his eyes were now blazing with anger and hatred as he dared Fury to do something.

It was clear to Fury that the kid was almost at the end of his emotional and mental reserves. The last week had obviously worn him down so that he was now hovering right on the edge of completely losing it and doing something everyone would likely regret for a long time. Fury was secretly glad the kid was currently restrained, if he wasn't things could get messy really fast, though Fury was sure he and Coulson could easy outmatch him it would be a disastrous start to a potential partnership.

"Clint then, okay that's good to know. Though how I was supposed to know when you weren't talking to me I'm not sure. Despite what some people think I am not a mind reader. Seeing you apparently know my partner is here how about we invite him in now?"

Fury ignored Barton's answering glare as he turned and beckoned to Coulson to come in. Phil had been right with what he'd said to Fury; this kid wasn't stupid, he had guts and wouldn't let himself be intimidated despite the circumstances he was in. And he wasn't quite ready to die, he was a fighter and despite his attitude Fury could see there was still something left in him that might be worth salvaging. Fury had seen enough to make his judgement on Barton's character, it was time to get serious and see if this kid was really worth all the trouble Phil seemed to think he was and if bringing him into SHIELD was a possibility.

* * *

Phil had heard the whole conversation through the comm receiver in his ear, Fury was wearing a bug as he'd jammed the audio feeds to the room as soon as he'd gone in there, not wanting anyone to overhear his conversation with Barton. Though the prison was unaware of that as Fury had his ways of making nothing appear amiss thanks to SHIELD's superior technology.

Phil had been amazed with some of the things Fury had said to the kid. He was still trying to get his head around certain details he hadn't known. Like Barton apparently being under twenty years old and not over twenty-one, when the kid surprised and impressed him yet again.

Barton apparently saw straight through the one-way mirror and had described Coulson's position exactly, down to what his fingers were doing (Coulson hadn't been aware of that himself but Barton was right, taping his fingers was a nervous habit of his that he really had to break) so he wasn't making it up. Phil wasn't surprised when Fury beckoned him in not long after that. It was obviously time for a serious talk with the kid, not like what Fury had been baiting him with to see what reactions he got. Phil opened the door nearest to him and entered the interrogation room.

* * *

Fury watched Barton listen intently as Coulson entered the room behind him. He was wary and had reminded Fury of a caged wild animal while they were talking but he was doing a superb job of hiding his fear behind anger, it wouldn't have been visible to someone who wasn't actively looking for it. Barton's head was tilted as he listened to Phil enter the room behind him. As soon as Phil walked into Barton's line of sight Fury saw him relax marginally as the recognition dawned on his face.

"You again, Agent Phil Coulson of some super secret spy organisation right? I should have known; you both have the same vibe. And just who are you exactly?"

This last was addressed at Fury, who did his best not to look smug. Due to the angry glare he received from the kid he knew he hadn't quite succeeded but didn't care.

"Director Nick Fury of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division."

The kid raised an eyebrow, managing to look completely unimpressed.

"You know, that really is quite a mouthful. I still don't know how you fit it on a business card."

"We call it SHIELD in everyday speech."

"That's somewhat easier to remember. Did you name it just so you could have a cool acronym? Seriously, who would call an organisation _that_?"

Phil turned a laugh into a cough; he'd said pretty much the exact same thing to Fury when he'd first heard the acronym. In fact a lot of people asked the same question, Phil thought they should put it in a FAQ's booklet and publish it to give out to new Agents. Fury, sadly, wasn't on board with the idea.

Fury looked completely unimpressed as he answered the question. Gosh, how Phil envied the man's perfect poker face.

"Something like that. I wasn't part of the organisation back when it was named so I couldn't tell you. I did know some of the founders personally so it is entirely possible that was their intention, a shield to protect the people of earth from threats too big for ordinary people to handle."

Phil just nodded in agreement to Fury's statement before looking straight at Barton.

"You didn't ring me."

The question was implied.

"I don't know if you've heard but I've been slightly busy for the past week. I haven't exactly had a chance as I've suddenly become a very popular person."

"I am well aware of that. Just how did local police manage to catch you? It took me months to track you down, even longer to actually get near enough to talk to you not to mention the amount of time and effort it took to find out your name in the first place. I'm curious as to how some random, bumbling Spanish police officers managed to do all that in less than a week?"

Barton looked Coulson in the eyes for a long moment before replying.

"I was slightly distracted after the meeting with you; I was so busy thinking on what you'd said that my concentration slipped and I got careless. Managed to get involved in a car accident and hit my head real hard, I was still unconscious when they sent me to hospital. Woke up to find I was handcuffed to the bed under armed guard, they must have taken my fingerprints while I was unconscious or something as I have no idea how they figured out who I was. They kept me on strong drugs after that so I wasn't coherent enough to successfully escape, don't get me wrong I tried but didn't get far. They ended up securing my feet to the bed as well after that."

"Next thing I know I'm back in the States facing an old court martial and having people tell me I'm gonna be killed for deserting the army despite the fact I wasn't officially part of the army at the time as I'd already been discharged. Then you creepy spy types turn up and want to talk to me. As you can see with a week like that I kind of haven't had the time to ring anyone."

So that's what happened in Spain, a mixture of carelessness and dumb luck on the part of the police officers. Fury waited for Phil to continue, the kid seemed to be answering his questions and he didn't want to interrupt just yet.

"So were you going to ring me?"

Barton managed to look like he didn't care for a brief moment before the defensiveness crept back into his stance and he answered tersely.

"Was planning to, I just wanted to get a few of my things first. Instead I'm locked up here on US soil and what I wanted to bring with me is still there. I missed the deadline, didn't I?"

The way that last sentence was said had Fury inwardly smirking. The kid clearly still had a sense of humour, even given the stressful situation he was in and how scared he was. Phil was looking at Barton thoughtfully but there was a gleam in his eye that set off alarm bells in Fury's head.

"Yes, but if all this hadn't happened would you still have missed it?"

Barton shrugged and smirked as he sat up as straight as the chair and cuffs would allow him to.

"Maybe. I'm normally pretty good at being on time when I want to be however. Punctuality is good for business."

Fury spoke up then.

"So the accident is what happened to your face?" He gestured towards the side of the kids head.

Barton instinctively cowed at that before sitting up and looked at Nick like he was mad.

"What else could it be from? It was bad enough to actually knock me out cold, which is saying something as I've got a hard head. But it is actually an old wound that hadn't quite healed yet and the accident just re-opened it."

"What about the other bruises?"

"What part of hitting my head on a hard road surface did you not get? _Sir_."

Damn it, the kid sounded just like Phil did when he wanted to be annoying and insult his boss in the politest way possible. Fury felt a terrible sense of déjà vu about this whole situation as his thoughts were interrupted by Phil speaking.

"So Barton, you thought about that offer to join SHIELD?"

The kid gave him a calculated look that someone that age shouldn't be capable of giving.

"Yeah, but I thought it had expired days ago."

Phil smirked, looking mighty pleased with himself.

"Due to unforeseen and unplanned for circumstances, I think it could probably be extended at least another few minutes. What do you say Director?"

This last was addressed to Fury who nodded as he turned fully around to face them both.

"Five minutes. Max."

He removed a lock pick from somewhere on his person and placed it on the table where Barton could reach it in spite of the cuffs. He locked eyes with the boy for a long moment before walking away from the table, examining the room from the inside and apparently ignoring the ex-sniper and his own agent.

Phil kept the smirk on his face as he settled back comfortably in the spare chair, placing his feet on the table as he glanced at his watch.

"Four minutes forty-five seconds left Barton."

The kid eyed the pick for a few moments and looked hard at Fury and Coulson before he reached for it. Slowly and deliberately the first cuff, and then the second one, popped open. After stretching the kinks out of his arms and shoulders he placed the pick back on the table before tenderly rubbing his bruised and chafed wrists, the cuffs had been tighter then were strictly necessary and pulling against them hadn't helped. Finally freed from the cuffs and having restored blood circulation to his hands Barton fixed his eyes on Coulson.

"Time?"

Coulson smiled as he removed his feet from the table.

"Thirty seconds left. Welcome to SHIELD, Probationary Agent Barton."

Fury turned around at that.

"Yes, welcome Agent. I hope you know what you're getting into."

Nick seriously hoped he knew what he was getting into going along with this.

Phil spoke with Barton a bit more. Fury was only half listening to what was said, being too busy planning on how to get Barton out of here. It wasn't until Phil asked a strange question that made him turn and give the pair his full attention.

"How deaf are you exactly?"

Barton's eyes dropped for a moment before he crossed his arms defiantly and glared at Phil with a challenge in his eyes.

"Why? Reconsidering your offer? Don't like damaged goods?"

"Of course not." Phil was deadly calm. "But it is classed as a disability on our books so we need to know everything about it. I presume it happened after the army as they would have noticed something that major. Was it the explosion?"

Barton dropped his eyes and chewed his lip for a moment before answering.

"Not _that_ explosion. And I'm almost eighty percent deaf in both ears. These hearing aides are custom made."

Fury joined in than, glaring at Phil.

"You didn't think to mention this sooner Agent Coulson? How long have you known?"

"Since our pleasant little meeting in Paris a week ago."

Phil was unruffled even as Barton's jaw dropped and he stared at Coulson. Fury spoke then, his tone indicating just how pissed off he was at Phil for not telling him this before.

"When were you going to share this information with the class Coulson?"

"I just did."

Fury's gaze swivelled around to land on the young sniper who still had his arms crossed defiantly in front of him and wore a death glare on his face.

"So you can't hear without hearing aids?"

Barton looked cowered as he replied.

"Not clearly, there is some slight noise but nothing identifiable. You plan on leaving me here now that you know about my weakness?"

Phil wisely kept his mouth shut so Fury could answer that question. A good move in Fury's opinion, none of this was the kids fault and no, this didn't change wanting Barton on their side. However, there were a few things Fury wanted to clear up first.

"How long ago did it happen?"

The young assassin hesitated before replying with some reluctance.

"Just over a year."

That meant he'd been operating as a highly successful international assassin despite his disability for at least twelve months. That meant it had happened way before he'd landed himself on Fury's radar and SHIELD started actively chasing him.

"Obviously it doesn't interfere with your ability to do your job?"

"I work from a distance for a reason and it's never been a major problem."

Fury nodded, satisfied for now.

"Okay then, that's all I wanted to know." Seeing Barton's look of suspicion and disbelief he continued, "The offer to join SHIELD still stands; I just needed to make sure the hearing loss wasn't a recent occurrence. You have been inactive for several weeks now; I wanted to make sure it wasn't due to that."

Fury continued to watch the kid as Phil spoke to him some more, patiently answering questions.

"I saw the aids after I tazered you in Paris. I'm not sorry for that by the way, just bear in mind for future reference that I have a tazer and I'm not afraid to use it. Anyway, I presume that is part of the reason you keep your hair long, to hide your ears."

Barton seemed relieved to be free of any restraints, going by the way he was sitting there and kind of talking to Coulson, and it might have been Fury's imagination but he thought the boy looked slightly calmer for it as well. He obviously heavily resented been restrained, something Fury and most of SHIELD could personally relate to.

Barton was still wary and unsure, understandable given the conversation they'd just had and who they were, but didn't look as if he was about to bolt on them. It was probably only because they knew the way out of the prison and had the power to take him with them but Fury still counted it as a win for now. After letting Phil talk with Barton for a while longer Fury interrupting him.

"Coulson, are you ever going to stop gasbagging and be ready to go? The jet's waiting outside and we still have to have Barton discharged, find him a change of clothes, and go through all the paperwork this is going to generate. I'll like to be back at base before tomorrow, if that is possible? I do have an organisation to run back in New York."

* * *

Coulson smirked at that before looking across the table at Clint.

"Ready to go kid?"

Clint felt like laughing because of what Fury had just said but kept his expression neutral as he nodded. He was more than ready to get out of here; in fact he'd been ready to leave before he'd even arrived.

He hadn't actually thought he would be leaving, and even though he still wasn't sure about going with Fury and Coulson he wanted a chance to live. Despite everything he'd been through in his life he wasn't ready to die just yet. Besides; he wanted a chance to do some good for a change and wasn't using his skills to change the world for the better what he'd always wanted to do? Clint sat up straight in his chair and uncrossed his arms as he looked challengingly at both the older men.

"SIRS, yes, SIRS."

Clint watched Coulson's face break into a badly concealed smirk and then he looked at Fury to see he wore a blank mask, but he was sure there was a slight twinkle in his eye that hadn't been there before. Fury then marched towards the door, beckoning for Clint to follow him.

This was different, his superiors in the army had always been mad and often started swearing at him and cursing whenever he'd used that insult. A few of the shorter tempered ones had even hit him. If his new bosses actually possessed a sense of humour maybe this gig wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

It was ironic, Fury thought several hours later, (after they'd dealt with all the paperwork) as he watched Barton board the SHIELD jet back to New York and sit in the seat in the corner, the way things had a habit of turning out. Almost a decade ago, when Fury had been younger and a lot less wise than he was now, he'd seen potential in a troublesome, rebellious, somewhat crazy and often seemingly insane sniper, and people had thought he was mad when he'd plucked said crazy sniper out of a military prison and made him his right hand man. That had eventually extended to his left eye as well. Fury had been sure at the time that he would never meet another Coulson and that might not be a bad thing, and here he was now looking at the living proof that assumption had been wrong.

After seeing Barton in the flesh he finally fully understood why Phil hadn't been able to carry through with the kill order. Barton reminded them both of Coulson when he was younger. They had the same attitude to life, some way of coping, same insults, same _everything_. The kid was like a reincarnation of Phil Coulson which was a very scary thought.

Phil would probably never admit it, even under torture, but Fury was sure he now knew the real reason Coulson hadn't killed Barton and had been so insistent he should live; it was because he couldn't kill himself. Barton was obviously a survivor and fighter or he wouldn't have lived this long and Fury suspected that was part of what Phil had seen in the kid that had made him change his mind about killing him. Thanks to Fury and his moment of insanity Coulson had never had to resort to what Barton had had to do to survive, he'd never gone so low and gotten such a black soul. Apart from that they were almost identical, apart from the trust issues the kid obviously had, in fact he had more trust issues than Fury had seen in anyone in a while which was a very disturbing thought given some of what Fury had seen.

That obvious lack of trust was the big difference between Barton and Coulson; Barton didn't trust anyone and likely hadn't trusted anyone in a long time. Phil had always had trust in other people and sometimes too much faith. The lack of any sort of trust was painfully obvious in the way Barton's eyes never left them for long, always coming back to rest on them after looking around a bit. His eyes were constantly in motion, taking in everything that happened around him, he was relying heavily on his eyes to let him know what was happening.

It made sense that his eyes were valuable to him, especially after finding out at the prison that Barton was 80% deaf and wore hearing aids most of the time. Fury wondered how that had happened but knew the question wouldn't be answered in the near future; Barton obviously wasn't going to tell them how it had happened in a hurry and really Fury didn't blame him.

Teaching him to trust would take time, everything would take time, but Fury knew from past experience that he was a good judge of character and after talking to Barton personally and assessing the sniper himself he was confident they would succeed in the end, if Barton really wanted to change that is.

Everything depended on Barton and if he really wanted this, if he didn't then nothing they did would work and he'd either be on his way back to prison or dead within a few months. After the plane took off Fury thought idly that Barton may prove to be an even greater challenge then Phil had been, and that was really saying something.

Fury looked over again at the kid who was sitting tensely in his chair and staring out the window, his shoulders were rigid and he was sitting ramrod straight in his chair. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. Fury had a suspicion he'd regret agreeing to this more than once before they were through.

Barton was Phil's problem now, though Phil didn't know what Fury had planned for him in that regard yet, that would make a nice present later, part of his punishment for disobeying Fury's orders. Fury still had his doubts that this would work out, but after listening to Phil, doing his own research into Hawkeye and what he had witnessed firsthand he had no doubts he was doing the right thing by at least offering Clint Barton a chance to live a better life. Whether he embraced it and used it for good or ended up back in prison or dead and buried was entirely up to him.

* * *

**The End (for now)**

* * *

**The interrogation scene with Fury was inspired by a scene in the Ultimate Comics Hawkeye mini-series.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go. That's the story of how Clint came to be recruited into SHIELD in this Universe. It wasn't an easy journey for him and isn't about to get any easier for anyone. In the meantime, as I promised the titles and summaries of the next few stories in the Choices and Second Chances Universe are listed below.  
> ________________________________________
> 
> Secrets and Spies (sequel to Shades of Red and Black)
> 
> Recruited into SHIELD by Agent Phil Coulson and Director Fury himself Clint Barton, aka the assassin Hawkeye, knows this is his second chance to do something good with his life. However, in an agency full of spies there are many secrets and Clint is unwittingly drawn into playing their game. Is our archer up to the challenge?
> 
> Being edited, will start posting fairly soon.  
> ________________________________________
> 
> Those Nine Months
> 
> Do you wonder what happened to Clint between the time he left the army and the time we meet him again in chapter 2 of Shades of Red and Black? What happened during that time to change him from being a cheeky snart-mouthed sniper into an almost emotionless master assassin? This series of short stories and one shots will aim to answer those questions and more besides as we delve into the mystery of the events surrounding those missing nine months.
> 
> In progress  
> ________________________________________  
> The sequel is currently finished and in the beta-reading and editing stage. I hope to start posting in a month or so but need to iron out a few of the finer details first. When I do I will be posting it simultaneously across the two sites.
> 
> I wish to thank Midnight Star26 and jaguarspot for beta-ing this whole story for me! 
> 
> AustralianRanger012 out. (for now anyway)

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think of Chapter 1? Chapter 2 will be up in the next couple of days.
> 
> Chapter 2: Now
> 
> See you then!


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